


Anatomy 101

by Fyre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels with Genitalia, Curiosity, First Time, From Eden to Armageddon and beyond, Post-Eden, Sex Education - Angel Style, Wherein the lads discover the joys of the flesh, drinking and shagging through history, gots to get a thorough education, in all kinds of configurations, making all kinds of efforts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-01-25 15:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 76,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21358426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Two humans are enjoying some alone time. A demon has questions. An angel has answers.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1415
Kudos: 1942





	1. Lesson 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gingerhaole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerhaole/gifts).

> Yet another piece triggered by Gingerhaole's [lovely art](https://twitter.com/gingerhaole/status/1192494614919315456). Also, because of said art, now a birthday fic for her :)
> 
> ...and now that it's done, I can see potential for future chapters. GDI.

“What do you think they’re doing down there?”

Aziraphale had been trying his very best to ignore the demon beside him, but really, some questions were impossible to ignore. After the incident with the tree and sealing the wall, he had hoped the fellow would… not hang around, but when he had set off after the humans himself, the demon had tagged along, pouring forth a litany of questions.

“Oh really…”

The demon – Crawly, was it? – was on his hands and knees on the edge of outcrop, overlooking the clearing where the humans had set up their makeshift home. He glanced up at the angel. “D’you think he’s trying to help her with her backache?” He wrinkled his nose. “Sounds she’s making, I don’t think it’s working.”

Aziraphale eyed him. It felt like a plot. Surely, it had to be a ploy. “You… really don’t know?”

The demon seemed nonplussed. “Do you?”

Oh, Aziraphale knew very well. There had been pamphlets with illustrations. As far as he could understand, it was not dissimilar to assembling furniture, whatever furniture was. A certain tab which could be placed in a slot. Interlocking parts, one might say.

“Yes,” he said.

At once, he had the demon’s full attention. “Ooh? What is it?”

The angel flapped a hand dismissively. “It’s… that’s how they procreate.”

“They what?”

“Make new people.”

Crawly’s golden eyes went wide as dinner plates. “They… _make_ people?”

Aziraphale nodded authoritatively. The poor fellow couldn’t help it if he’d missed the briefings. Maybe Hell didn’t keep their people abreast of the situation. “That’s why her belly is round now. Adam contributed some of his genetic material to Eve’s and they combined to make the person growing inside her. It’ll come out when it’s big enough.”

The demon looked from him down at the humans and Aziraphale followed the line of his gaze.

The woman was on her hands and knees on the grass and the man was behind her. He was certainly being thorough, but not as vigorous as he usually was. Probably because of the life growing inside her. They were both making enthusiastic sounds, though, so it was nothing to worry about.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Crawly finally said.

Aziraphale puffed up, indignant. “I can assure you that’s what they do!”

The demon glanced up at him. “Yeah, but if she’s got a person already, why are they still doing it? I mean, I remember them in the garden. They were at it all the time. Makes sense if you want to make a person, but…” He waved a hand down at them. “I don’t think they’re doing it to make a person.”

The urgent sounds of rapture rang out in the air and Aziraphale’s ears pinked.

“Ah,” he said self-consciously. “There _is_ an element of pleasure to it. Or so I’ve been told.”

Crawly cocked his head. “Pleasure?” He wrinkled his nose. “But they’re just… rubbing on each other.”

“That’s what I was told,” Aziraphale said, trying very hard to regain his decorum.

The demon leaned out over the edge of the outcrop, peering down. “Oh. Right. They have those bits we don’t have.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale nodded. “They’re compulsory for humans in some configuration. We’re lucky that they’re only optional for us.”

“They _are_?” The demon was staring at him again. “How do you _know_ all this stuff? We got told bugger all!”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake…” Aziraphale miracled one of the pamphlets into his hand, then passed it down to the demon. The demonstration models would have been better, but someone was bound to notice if they went missing. “Look, it’s very simple.”

Crawly snatched the pamphlet, leafing through it. Once or twice, he tilted it, examining the etchings, then he looked up at Aziraphale. “Can we do stuff like that too?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to scoff at the thought, but the words caught on his tongue. Could they? He hadn’t really considered it. They certainly couldn’t procreate, not the way humans did, but there _was_ that element of pleasure and the cries of the humans had invoked the name of God, so surely, there was some kind of divine pleasure there.

“I suppose we could,” he said thoughtfully.

The demon frowned, tilting the pamphlet again. “Could you show me how it works?”

Aziraphale blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

The demon waved down at the supine humans, now sprawled out on the grass below, enfolded in one another’s limbs. “I can… technically, the mechanics of it make sense, but I don’t _get_ it.” He pointed to Adam, who was considerably less tumescent than he was only moments earlier. “How does it–”

“Oh _Lord_…” Aziraphale pressed his fingertips to his eyelids, massaging them. “_Must_ you know?”

“You got _pamphlets_!” The demon waved it emphatically. “Bet you got demonstrations as well.” He gave Aziraphale a hopeful look. “Beginners class, maybe? Just the basics, so I know what to look out for?”

Aziraphale sighed. It was unfair to unleash the poor chap on a world with so little knowledge of how it all worked. And privately, he had to admit he had some rather pressing queries regarding the way everything worked. The models had been simple and straightforward, but certainly didn’t demonstrate _why_ the humans seemed to enjoy it all so much.

“We ought to move beneath the trees if you insist on this,” he said. “I’d rather not be caught out in plain sight teaching Heavenly knowledge to a demon, if you don’t mind.”

Crawly scrambled up with a grin. “Lead on, then.”

There was another smaller clearing not too far from the one the humans currently occupied with a thick turf of lush grass under the canopy of swaying branches. Sunlight was diluted by the leaves, tinting the world in hues of green.

Aziraphale knelt, patting the grass in front of him. “Have you changed your form before?”

“You mean apart from the snake thing?”

The angel gave him a look. “Yes. Apart from that.” He tapped the pamphlet in Crawly’s hand. “Do you think you could form one of the human parts?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” The demon tossed the pamphlet aside and hiked up his robes. A new part rested against his thighs. He gave Aziraphale a smug grin. “See? Easy.”

All at once, Aziraphale had the distinct feeling that he was pushing the bounds of the divine guidance he was allowed to provide. The part looked so very human, even if Crawly was a demon. And yet, curiosity got the better of him and he reached out and took it in his hand.

“Now,” he began, intending to give the fellow the same lecture he had been given when they had been trained in the adoption and adaption of human parts.

He didn’t manage, for the moment he touched Crawly, the demon gave a sharp gasp, and all at once, Aziraphale was very, very aware of the heat and change in density of the object in his hand. The demon looked from Aziraphale’s hand to his face and back.

“Is– are _you_ doing that?” the demon asked, his hands fisted in his robes.

“It’s a-a-a natural reaction,” Aziraphale gabbled, mentally riffling through his notes. Ah, that made sense now. Thought they hadn’t suggested it would be so instantaneous. It certainly hadn’t been when he and his brethren were standing in ranks, demonstrating their newest accoutrements. There had been no touching then. Now, he was beginning to see why. “It needs to be more solid to fit its purpose.” He moved his hand again and Crawly shuddered. “It’s not painful, is it?”

Crawly shook his head, kneading at his robes. He shifted and in doing so, pushed himself hard against Aziraphale’s hand. That made everything much better and worse at once, for the demon gasped and Aziraphale felt some wetness on his skin.

“Ah.” He grasped onto the knowledge he remembered. He stroked his thumb across the tip. “Lubrication. You see, Crawly…” And one look at Crawly and his words dried up in his mouth.

The demon’s head was bowed, his cheeks flushing. Mutely, he pushed his hips forward and moved against Aziraphale’s hand again. He made another of those low, urgent sounds and it seemed to surge through every fibre of Aziraphale’s body. It was a _good_ sound and Aziraphale had a sudden mad rush of desire to see what other sounds he could draw from the demon.

And well… he had offered to teach him about how it worked with the humans.

If Crowley had Adam’s part, then best for him to begin simply and introduce him to the way it fitted into Eve’s part. Simple, really.

A miracle changed his form into an appropriate interlocking shape.

“Would you like to see how they fit together?” he offered.

The demon nodded, tongue pressing to his teeth. He hissed when Aziraphale withdrew his hand, then leaned forward, eyes wide and curious, as Aziraphale drew aside his own robes.

Strange, Aziraphale thought with a rush of giddy heat, that the demon’s stare could make odd pulses flicker in those new places. In drill class, it had not been half as interesting. And oh! It seemed that Eve’s parts were producing lubrication of their own as well. He reached down, curious, and instantly both regretted and rejoiced that he had.

“Oh. Oh _my_.”

“What does it feel like?” Crawly asked hoarsely.

Certainly nothing like Heaven, and yet far, far better. It was probably a little too hands-on for Heaven’s teaching style, but he reached out and took Crawly’s hand and pressed it between his thighs. “Like that,” he said, startled by how changed his voice was.

Crawly pressed his hand flat, which was… rather nice, and then… then he did something with his fingers that was considerably nicer. Aziraphale made a sound. A vague, urgent, and greedy sound. Oh, oh dear. This was certainly getting out of hand.

“Now…” He pushed Crawly back a way. “L-lie down, would you? I’ll show you how the parts fit.”

The demon sprawled out on the grass, pulling his robes up high above his skinny waist. His part stood up eagerly, not quite as large or thick as Adam’s, but Aziraphale couldn’t help admiring it, the shape and colour and the delicacy of the veins beneath the skin. He reached out to stroke it again and the demon shuddered.

This was… good. They had the necessary parts and they simply needed to interlock them and the demonstration would be finished and… and…

Aziraphale wet his lips, then lifted his robes and knelt, knees on either side of Crawly’s hips.

“They don’t do it like this very often,” Crawly said, staring at him unblinking. His fingers were curled in the grass, his body taut as a wire. “I mean, the humans. The one with this part is usually–”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed, “but I– you want to _see_ how it works, don’t you?”

The demon’s long tongue curled along his lips and in so doing made something delicious and hot curl deep in Aziraphale’s body. Oh _Lord_, the thoughts racing through his mind were… it was… they needed to finish the lesson and be done with it.

“Y-you see,” he said, slipping his hand downwards, between his thighs. “There is– we have parts that will fit together.”

Crawly was braced on his elbows, staring down greedily. “Mm.”

Lord, Aziraphale thought raggedly. The heat in his eyes. It was… inappropriate. So very, very inappropriate. It ought to have been simple and practical. Slot A, tab b, and done, yet the parts were warm and thrumming against his fingers and as he lowered himself, he could feel the matching throbbing heat in the demon.

When flesh met scorching flesh, Aziraphale forget everything.

“Oh,” he breathed. He met the demon’s eyes and saw the hunger there, the want, the eagerness, all for him. Crawly brought one grass-stained hand up to Aziraphale’s hip, licked his lips again, and nodded.

In for a penny, Aziraphale thought, and thrust himself downwards.

There was pain, yes, but oh, it was exquisite and hot and the demon moaned under him, hips stuttering. His hips were jerking, short, urgent bursts, and Aziraphale could only gather his thoughts and try to match them.

Crawly gave a small shuddering gasp and there was more warmth and heat and he flushed scarlet.

“Oh! Bugger!” he croaked.

Aziraphale didn’t move at once. The stuttering rubs of Crowley’s body against his had been… it had begun something, a low, pleasant throb, to the front. Cautiously, he lifted himself and let his fingers explore until he found the part that send charges of energy skitter through him. “Oh…”

A second hand covered his. “Th-there?” Crawly demanded, pushing himself up to sit.

Aziraphale ought to have protested. No place for hands in these arrangements. Heaven had been very particular about that. Parts interlocked. Anything else was… not Heavenly mandated behaviour. But the demon’s spend was trickling down Aziraphale’s thighs, hot and wet, and his hand was already there and–

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed, raising himself on his knees, the demon’s part slipping free, wet and soft now. Instead, there were fingers in its place, slick and warm and curious. They explored and Aziraphale found his body moving quite of its own volition, urging them on and, when they met the place where Crawly’s part had been, the demon met his eyes and pushed one in. “Oh!”

Crawly’s face lit up and he moved his hand as he’d moved his hips. Aziraphale found himself bobbing on his knees, meeting it, and Lord… Lord, the press-rub of the heel of his hand further forward was doing something quite… quite lovely.

Another push, another press and Aziraphale bit his lip to stifle a sound as a second finger joined the first.

“S’that right, angel?” Crawly asked, unblinking, drinking in his expressions. He looked as rapt and awed as Aziraphale felt and Aziraphale could only clutch at his shoulder and nod.

Crawly’s tongue curled along his lips again and Aziraphale groaned at the sight of it, some hidden place in him flaring in response. It was wrong to think of that, to think of any of this, but Lord, the need was fluttering through him like ripples of tsunami and if he stopped now, would he ever have the… gall to ask again.

And more worryingly, the opportunity.

“C-Crawly,” he panted, reaching down and catching the demon’s wrist and pushing his hand away. “I-I have a suggestion.”

The demon nodded expectantly.

Aziraphale hesitated, then slipped his hand lower, stroking his fingers until they were good and wet. He stared down at them, shimmering in the half-light, then offered them to the demon. “Do you want to taste?”

Golden eyes stared, stared for so long the heat of shame rose up the back of his neck.

Wrong, he thought, to assume. Stupid. Risky. Da–

Crawly’s tongue curled around one of his fingers and the heat surged like wildfire in him. Nothing even touching him aside from that tongue, but Aziraphale gasped out, hips leaping, twitching helplessly. The demon had closed his eyes in pleasure and his mouth closed around one of Aziraphale’s fingers, then another, sucking in a way that elicited that glorious, peculiar, aching pulse.

If the touch of it on his fingers was so delightful…

Wordlessly, he lifted his knee to move off Crawly’s body. The demon tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s wrist, tongue curling against his palm, and Aziraphale whined, fist bunching in his robe.

“C-Crawly,” he panted.

Those golden eyes were on his face again. He met them, stared into them, then… then…

He sprawled back, hand over his face and spread his knees.

For several unbearable, aching seconds, Crawly didn’t move. Aziraphale’s heart was thunder in his ears and pressed his eyes shut. Too far. Too much. Nothing to do with a lesson anymore, not at all.

Then warm hands were on his knees, pushing his robes up, higher, down his thighs, bunching them over his belly.

He dared a glance between trembling fingers and saw Crawly lick his lips like a starving man offered a feast. He couldn’t look away, not as that burnished head sank lower, not as his legs were nudged wider and he had to throw them over the demon’s shoulders to give him room.

The first touch was cautious, barely a tease of contact. Aziraphale whimpered into his palm.

The second was not. That long, wicked, tempter’s tongue uncurled against him, licking from the back to the very front in a greedy, devouring stroke that had Aziraphale biting into the meat of his hand. He felt more than heard the low greedy groan from the demon, a hum against his skin, and had a heartbeat to realise what a mistake he might have made before Crawly _devoured_ him.

That wicked, wonderful tongue lashed at him and he keened as desperately as Eve had in the garden. It explored him, finding that pulsing throbbing knot of fire, flickering and teasing, and Aziraphale could scarcely breathe. Crawly’s robes rucked under his heels as he pushed his hips upwards, demandingly, wordlessly, and Crawly took him at his command. That tongue delved deeper, as deep as his Adam’s part, lapping at him, and uncurling, stroking and teasing along skin that burned and _ached_, until the angel was quivering and whining.

Crawly lifted his head, his face flushed, his eyes bright. “Angel,” he panted out. “My part is ready again.”

Aziraphale reached down, catching his by the hair. “Yes,” he pleaded. “Lord, yes…” He pulled the demon up over him, their robes a tangled mess between their bodies. Oh, it was too much, too many layers. It was far simpler when the humans had nothing. Impatiently, he snapped his fingers and oh _Lord have mercy_, that was so much better and worse, as skin pressed to throbbing, needing, wanting skin.

Crawly laughed, looking down between them and wriggled until he was pressing so close there could be no mistaking his intent. “Now we can both see,” he said, then gave the angel such a smile, Aziraphale – for a brief flicker of a moment – forgot all about what they were doing. The demon moved over him, then braced his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s head. “Do I…”

Aziraphale remembered the first time, the way arms and legs had come into play, and wrapped his legs around the demon’s hips and _pulled._ Crawly slid into him as if they were made to fit together, his arms giving way, his body flush against Aziraphale’s, their faces a breath apart. 

“O-oh,” he said hoarsely. “That… yeah…”

Aziraphale took a shaking breath, trying to gather his wits. One hand was lost in the demon’s curls – they were soft and heavy as silk between his fingers. He could feel every inch, every point of contact, the thunder of the demon’s heart against his own.

“You okay, angel?” Crawly nudged the tip of Aziraphale’s nose with his own.

Aziraphale wanted to give words. Encouragement. Reassurance. Education. Something. His words were elsewhere. Busy. All he could see was the demon’s face and those golden eyes and he remembered another way the humans communicated without words.

Gently, he nudged Crawly’s head down and brushed his mouth against the demon’s.

His lips were still wet and his breath hitched, his lips parting enough for Aziraphale to dart his tongue, tasting him. Tasting both of them. And the demon took it as invitation and all at once, that wonderful tongue curled around Aziraphale’s, dragging Aziraphale’s tongue fully between his lips.

And in the same languid moment, Crawly began to _move_.

It wasn’t like Adam. It wasn’t even _human_. His whole body undulated, ripples of unnaturally powerful muscle driving him, and Aziraphale’s mouth fell open in a ragged gasp as the demon ploughed into him, as if trying to bury himself utterly in him.

The Almighty’s name tripped of Aziraphale’s tongue before he could stop it, his body arching demandingly, urgently, against Crawly’s. Shared breaths panted over their lips, mouths crushing and bruising and licking and biting.

The roll of Crawly’s body against his was surging unbearably, magnificently over his, and the pulsing heat that had been skittering through him was crescendoing. He couldn’t keep a cry from rising in his throat, his legs locked around the demon’s hips, his fingers sinking into Crawly’s curls, as Crawly gulped down every strangled cry.

It was a wave of… of something, washing thought, reason, words away. He could only hold on, ride it out, shuddering and gasping.

Over him, Crawly lifted his head, breaking their lips apart, staring down at him. He was still moving, still, but slower, worry in his face.

“Pain?” he asked hoarsely.

Aziraphale only shook his head and dug his fingers in, his hips lifting demandingly.

The demon flashed a brilliant smile and, slipping a hand beneath Aziraphale’s head, pulled him up to press their mouths together again. “I like this,” he whispered against Aziraphale’s lips. “You. This. All feels… it feels so bloody _good,_ angel…”

Every word was an eddy threatening another of those waves. If they didn’t stop, if they didn’t do… something soon to slow it all down, would they ever be able to do anything but this? Would they ever want to?

“Oh…” Aziraphale gasped out, pulling Crawly’s head down, burying his face in that beautiful hair, and… and for some reason he could never understand, he _bit_ the demon hard on the neck.

Crawly cried out as loud as Aziraphale, but from the stutter of his hips, it was as good a cry, and Aziraphale felt the heat and the wetness and the shuddering moan of the demon releasing his seed again.

They were both breathing hard and Crawly’s body was slumped, warm and deliciously heavy on Aziraphale’s. They– parts were still… interlocked. Aziraphale shivered pleasantly as the demon shifted his hips, moving them both together.

And little by little, Aziraphale became aware of the cool grass against his skin, the scent of torn dirt and wind-tossed leaves, the sound of the birds in the nearby trees. And of the fact that he was naked and intimately entwined with the enemy, a demon, one of the opposition.

Who was licking at his neck, delicate, fluttering little touches of a forked tongue.

“What are you doing?” he asked, because – of all the questions flooding his mind – it seemed like the sensible thing to ask.

“Y’smell nice,” the demon murmured. He sounded sleepy and satisfied and Aziraphale bit his lip to stifle a shivering moan as Crawly pushed his hips close once more. “Mm.” His smile rubbed against Aziraphale’s throat. “Good lesson.”

Lesson.

Yes.

Right. That was exactly what they had been doing. That was definitely and absolutely all.

He patted the demon carefully on the back. “Glad to be of assistance.”

Crawly lifted his head. His hair was in disarray and his eyes seemed unusually dark. “You all right, angel?”

Aziraphale gave him a careful smile. “Of course, dear fellow.” He patted Crawly’s shoulder again. “But we really ought to go our separate ways, don’t you think? Just in case. Better to avoid any trouble, isn’t it?”

The demon pushed himself back and Aziraphale’s breath hitched as their bodies came apart. He was suddenly and dreadfully aware of how bare he was, and how damp and – admittedly pleasantly – tender he was between his thighs.

Crawly was gazing down at him and instinct made him want to close his thighs, but the demon put a hand on his knee before he could. “Can I–” He nodded down. “Once more? To clean you up? I mean, it’s my mess, isn’t it?”

The lesson was over. It was definitely absolutely over. No reason to…

“_Once_ more, then we’re finished here,” he said as sternly as he could.

That sun-bright smile dazzled him again and the demon slithered down onto his belly and buried his face between Aziraphale’s thighs again. Aziraphale pressed his head back against the grass, his heels digging into Crowley’s spine and somehow, utterly without his consent, his hands buried themselves in the demon’s hair, guiding him, pushing him to the places where that mouth really ought to be.

That tongue…

“Lord…” Aziraphale keened, as hot licks stroked deeper into him, then traced every part of him, and finally, finally, finally, those lips pressed to that delicious terrible wonderful point that made everything contract into starlight. He cried out something. It might have been the demon’s name.

Little by little, the world drifted back into focus. The licks were on his thighs now. Demon was as good as his word. Not a trace left, not a smear, nothing but the smudges around the demon’s glistening mouth.

Finally, Crawly sat back on his heels and glanced down at himself. “Well,” he said, giving his part a gentle pat. “Definitely learned a thing or two.”

Aziraphale nodded, sitting up. His limbs felt rather shaky, but in a pleasant, overused way. No wonder the humans enjoyed their occupation so much. He hastily moved his hand in a gesture that smoothed the planes of his body back to their more familiar shape. Better to resist the impulse to… fiddle around with them and see what else they might do.

Crawly hadn’t done the same, but Aziraphale had self-control. He certainly did. Enough to miracle his own clothing back in place. A subtle and firm hint that lessons ought to be over and they ought to be… well… not here where they had rather churned up the ground and left each other panting and squirming about like… like humans.

“So…” Crawly cocked his head, his hair sliding over his bare shoulder. His lips were still glistening and wet and Aziraphale had the peculiar longing to taste them, to see what they tasted like together. “D’you think that’s everything I need to know?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale nodded. “Yes! Yes. Everything.” He got to his rebellious legs, managing – with effort – to keep to his feet. And then, despite the fact the demon had finally stopped asking questions, he opened his mouth and said, “If you ever have any more questions…”

You’d think he’d set the stars the way the demon’s face lit up.

Oh dear, Aziraphale thought.

“I… er…” He pointed back in the direction of the outcrop. “I’m just– I ought to be going. Over there.”

The demon nodded, still grinning. He was idly stroking a hand down his chest and glanced thoughtfully down at his part. It was… there was certainly something stirring. Did it work, Aziraphale found himself wonder, if someone used their mouth on it as Crowley had used his mouth. He darted his tongue along his lip at the thought of Crawly’s fingers twisting in his hair and the demon calling his name.

Crawly wrapped his hand around it and gave it a squeeze and – oh Heavens – it was swelling again.

“D’you think we can have one all the time?” Crawly said.

Aziraphale tore his hand away from the fascinating piece of flesh. “I– er– that’s rather up to you.” Aziraphale bobbed in a flustered bow and turned and hurried away. He tried not to listen, but only a dozen paces away, he could hear the demon… getting better acquainted with his new accoutrement, judging by the sounds he was making.

Well…

Well, that just meant he’d taught the lesson well, didn’t it?

He hurried a bit further, out of earshot, and sat down on a rock, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

At least he was an angel. He had some sense of moderation and proportion, unlike the humans and – now – a certain demon. Heaven had been very clear that they were far superior to the humans and hands and flesh were not to be considered. And he could restrain himself to follow Heaven’s rules. He really could. It was only a little bit of physical pleasure. One could get that from a sweet piece of fruit. Or from the song of a bird. Or–

Or–

Or–

The demon’s shout of pleasure carried on the air.

Aziraphale’s knuckles were very white and he…

He had given away his holy sword. He had lied to the Almighty’s face about it. What was a little bit of touching his own – his _own_ – body compared to that? Nothing! Absolutely nothing. And it was purely an experiment in understanding humanity and he didn’t need to give any excuses for it and…

“Damn it,” he swore as he shoved his hand under his robe again.


	2. Lesson 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this was inevitable.

The storm was growing worse.

Aziraphale risked cautiously peeping out between the rattling wooden shutters and shuddered. The world was obscured by thick billows of sand and, so far, the winds had only grown stronger. It could last for some days if they were unfortunate one of the humans warned.

It was very tiresome when one had one’s duty to do and the _weather_ of all things got in the way.

He sighed, retreating from the window and back into the crowded body of the room. The inn was large, but he wasn’t the only traveller to find himself caught there. Some were drinking already to wile the time away, others were eating and others had gaming die.

“Psst!”

Aziraphale turned, curious. A heavily robed man in the corner of the room beckoned him, crooking a finger. Well, there was nothing else to do, so the angel wove his way around the room. He was only halfway there when he realised what his senses were telling him and his ears pinked.

It had been quite some time – two-hundred-and-four solar rotations, eight lunar rotations and five dawns – since he had last seen the person before him. Technically, he knew he ought to pretend not to know him, but he could hardly stop walking now, when he had made it clear he had spotted him.

“Crawly.”

The demon unwrapped the scarf from around his face. “Didn’t know you were stuck in here too.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale nodded. “It’s rather unpleasant outside.”

“Yeah.” The demon studied him. “D’you want a drink?”

Aziraphale puffed up indignantly. “I don’t drink with my enemy.”

“Pfft!” Crawly grinned at him. “I’m not asking as an enemy. C’mon. What else are you going to do?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips in irritation. “We’re not friends,” he warned. “If we drink in this place, it’s purely because we’re both here and there’s nothing else to do.”

“Course!” Crawly beamed, catching him by the arm and steering him towards the innkeeper. His hand was ridiculously warm through the linen of Aziraphale’s robe and Aziraphale could feel his cheeks warming at a memory of a forest clearing and–

He pulled his arm free. “I can walk quite well, thank you.”

“Bet you can,” Crawly said, laughing. He snatched a pitcher and a couple of clay cups, then scanned the room and made a face. “C’mon. I know somewhere quieter.”

In hindsight, that was probably the moment the night slipped from Aziraphale’s control, but quite frankly, he was bored and thirsty, and the room _was_ very crowded and noisy. He followed the sinuous sway of the serpent through a doorway, up a narrow flight of stairs, and into a far smaller room with a table, two stools and a narrow bed, all lit by a lamp hung from the ceiling.

“Ah…” Crawly flung himself down on one of the stools and set to pouring the drinks. “Much better.” He flashed a smile up at the angel. “I like humans well enough, but put them in an enclosed space for a long time and it gets a bit… ripe.”

Aziraphale had to smile at that. “You’re not wrong,” he allowed, as he sat down on the other stool. Knees together. Feet flat. Proper. Not at all like– no. No! No thinking of that. He grabbed one of the cups, taking a deep draught from it and shuddered pleasantly. The local brews were sharp and strong. “What brings you here?”

The demon made a face. “The usual,” he said. “Here a temptation, there a temptation…” He picked up the other cup. “You?”

“Same.” Aziraphale sighed. “You’d think they would grant dispensations for travel without limits in weather like this.”

Crawly snorted. “Yeah, right. Like to make us work, they do.” He took another drink, then dragged his stool a little closer, the feet scraping along the floor. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to look you up for a while now.”

Dread settled like a rock in Aziraphale’s stomach. “Oh?”

“You remember when–” To his astonishment, the demon’s ears went red. “I mean, after Eden, with the humans, when we were…” He waved a hand. “I don’t know what it’s called! The thing we did! With the parts?”

Aziraphale swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You mean…” He fished for an appropriate word. Mating? No, that suggested something more animalistic. Procreating was definitely out. Pleasuring sounded far too indulgent. “Er…”

“Yes!” Crawly nodded. “That! Er!”

“That’s… not what it’s called,” Aziraphale blurted out, flustered.

“S’good enough,” Crawly countered. “You remember when we… erred?”

A mistake, an error, a lesson that went too far in the wrong and utterly delicious directions. It was certainly definitely not something Aziraphale thought about in the quiet darkness of the nights when he was alone. It absolutely was not something that made him think of lifting his robes. Most assuredly not.

“Yes.”

Crawly leaned closer, glancing about as if someone else could overhear them in an empty room. “You said I could come to you if I had any questions.”

Oh Lord. He had. Yes, he’d said that.

“Mm.” He acknowledged, taking a rather urgently required gulp of wine.

The demon’s expression brightened. “Oh, good!” He pushed cup and jug aside, leaning forwards on the table. “Thing is… I think there’s a second hole.”

Aziraphale choked on his mouthful of wine, coughing and spluttering. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

The demon waved a hand. “I was – you know – doing what I do. Tempting. And there was one of the men I went after and he– well, I thought he’d go for one of the new female ones, but he didn’t. He went for one of the male ones.” He wrinkled his nose. “I mean, I thought fair enough, but don’t know how that’s going to work, not when you need bits that match.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said weakly. Clearly Hell weren’t big on anatomy lessons. Nor were humans, it seemed. “I assume they realised their mistake.”

Crawly shook his head, leaning even closer. “They _did_ it. Second hole. Not like the one you had.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Really?” He hastily dug through his memories of the models and lessons and shaping an appropriate and accurate human form. For a male one of the human species, there could only be one place for it to go. “Ah. Oh. Right. Yes.” He winced. “That must have been rather unpleasant for one, if not both of them.”

“Why?”

Aziraphale flapped an awkward hand. “Mechanics, my dear. The part I used – Eve’s part – provides lubrication for that sort of thing. The… other hole does not. It’s a discharge point for their waste and nothing more.”

“Ohhhh!” Crawly rocked back on the stool. “Right! That explains why he poured something on them both!” He grinned, all teeth. “He brought his own.”

The angel blinked slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Lubrication,” Crawly explained eagerly. He rooted about in a pouch on his belt and produced a small clay vial. “I took it when they were… busy.” He held it out. “Smells like olives.”

Aziraphale put down his cup and snatched the vial, removing the stopper and sniffing it. It did indeed smell like olives. But surely, there was no good reason for a man to seek that from another man? It was meant to be part and parcel of procreation and there was nowhere for a child to grow within a form like Adam’s. Heaven had drawn up configuration diagrams and were very clear about what was meant to go where. They had never mentioned alternatives.

“Did they… were they…” The words hitched in his throat.

The demon nodded. “Very. A lot. Loudly. The one with the hole was enjoying it even more than the one with the Adam’s part.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale mentally riffled through the models and figures and no, there was certainly no mention of anything like that in his briefings. Perhaps Heaven had no considered it important. They had certainly been very strict on the interlocking for procreation only. It seemed that the humans were not adverse to trying different things.

A flush crept up the back of his neck, recalling a forest, a clearing, and the feel of Crawly’s curls between his fingers.

Not only humans, the treacherous thought whispered in his ear.

He dipped a fingertip into the vial, spreading it on his skin with his thumb. How clever they were, discovering something that ought not to be pleasurable and finding a way to make it so. Loudly, Crawly had said. Enjoying it, he had said. What on earth were they doing that was so loud and enjoyable, he wondered.

Across the table, the demon was motionless, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s hand.

_Can you show me how it works_, the demon had asked, all those years ago. A lesson. Something necessary to understand humans and how they functioned. Adam’s part and Eve’s part interlocking. Simple. He had taught a much needed lesson and had learned some interesting facts himself.

And was now realising he wanted to learn _precisely_ what that second hole could be used for.

But of course, that was not possible.

Well, no, technically, it was possible. It was not _appropriate_.

He spread the oil on his fingers, admiring the way it glistened in the flickering lamplight. A glance at the demon made his breath catch. Crawly was watching his oil-slicked fingers with a peculiar kind of hunger, a flush of colour across his cheeks.

Surely, it couldn’t hurt to know why he was staring so.

“What is it?”

Golden eyes flicked to his face. “That–” The demon’s voice hitched. “He did that to his fingers, then…” He mimed a thrusting motion. “Into the second hole. Like I did with your...” He nodded downwards, then flashed his teeth in a taut grin. “He – the other one – he made the same kind of noises you made.”

Aziraphale’s colour rose profusely. He remembered very well exactly how that had felt in the seconds before his every thought had been blasted apart by sensation. But that made no sense. Why would there be something like that _there_ of all places?

“Are you _sure_ it wasn’t the same kind of part as I used?”

The demon nodded emphatically. “He had the same kind that I had as well. I checked.”

Of course he did.

Aziraphale considered the oil and his fingers. Curiosity in angels was certainly not encouraged, not in any context, and yet, he couldn’t help wondering what other little surprises the Almighty had slipped into the human design. And She must’ve done it. She had given them a means to find pleasure in one another and that wasn’t a bad thing.

A wiser angel would have walked out of the door then, questions half-formed in his mind.

Aziraphale never professed to be wise.

He rose and crossed the floor, sliding the bolt of the door in place.

“I think I ought to see how it all works,” he said, turning to face the demon. “Show me. If you don’t mind, that is.”

Crawly’s face lit in an eager smile.

Of course, Aziraphale thought trying to quash his own blushing smile in return. The demon had come with new ideas and had brought specifics and a jar of the human-made lubrication fluid to a private room where none would disturb them. He may not have said the words, but his intent – his desire – was blatantly apparently. It should have run alarm bells of all kinds, but Aziraphale ignored them, just as he had ignored them the last time.

One could become rather lonely after a century or two.

Crawly shed his tunic and robes with almost indecent haste. He was as wiry as Aziraphale remembered, his hair a shining spill of red to his ribs. Freckles speckled his shoulders and arms and fine red hair shimmered on his limbs by the lamplight.

And he was, already, sporting the Adam’s part again.

The temptation to take it in his mouth and taste it roared through the angel again, but he quashed it hastily. This was nothing to do with Adam’s part. This was all to do with the mystery of the second hole and why it was a source of pleasure.

“H-how did they do it?”

The demon looked around, then pulled a small pillow from the end of the low bed and knelt on it, propping his arms on the edge of the bed. His body was all angles, his rear sticking out, and he looked over his shoulder.

“Like this,” he said. “The other one knelt beside him and used his fingers and the jar.”

And so, beside him Aziraphale knelt.

Closer, he could see the demon’s freckles weren’t limited to his shoulders, sprinkled like the constellations all over his thin body. Aziraphale reached out, tracing the shape of one of them on the demon’s spine and, to his surprise, the demon shuddered, uttering a soft moan.

“That _couldn’t_ have hurt you,” he protested.

“Not pain,” Crawly said, a little hoarsely, sounding awfully like he had… then.

No, no getting side-tracked.

Aziraphale shifted on his knees, following the slope of the demon’s spine with his eyes, to the neat curve where his body hinged. He had very little padding, Aziraphale noticed, barely flesh drawn over bones. The cushions of his backside were small, almost flat, the crease running between them.

“He used his fingers,” Aziraphale said. “Is that right?”

The demon was watching him through the spill of his red hair. “Yeah. One at a time.”

Aziraphale nodded. The first matter was finding the hole itself. He dipped his fingers in the vial again, until they were shiny and wet, then ran two of them down that line, sliding between the demon’s buttocks. The heat of him sent a skitter of curious desire through the angel all over again and it only grew worse when he found what he was looking for, circling it with his fingertips, and Crawly made one of those delicious sounds again.

He swallowed hard. This was… not an aspect covered in the Heavenly diagrams. He had not seen any demonstration of _anything_ going into such an opening, but everso cautiously, he moved his hand and slowly pressed a finger through the tight ring of tissue.

Crawly’s head dropped forward onto his arms and Aziraphale froze, but the demon’s muffled voice eked out between his arms. “Keep going.”

So he did, pressing slowly deeper, moving his finger to try and find the mysterious source of–

“Oh!” Crawly squeaked.

There! Yes! Aziraphale rubbed his finger against the aberration in the surface and the demon made another sound, his toes curling. A warm bloom was spreading across his shoulder and – mesmerised – Aziraphale slowly started thrusting his finger in and out, recalling the rock of the demon’s hips against his opening.

Crawly shuddered, his hips pushing back against Aziraphale’s hand. He had his arms wrapped over his head, fingers lost in the long tangle of his curls and his ribs were rising and falling with rapid, panted breaths.

Aziraphale’s own heart was racing to see the demon so reduced to desperate urgent rutting all over again. Under his awed gaze, he saw Crawly’s part – without any urging – starting to swell, curving up and he bit his lip. If they did that unasked…

It took a whisper of a miracle to change his form and a keening whine from the squirming demon to make an urgent throbbing ache to take root in his body. His part, it seemed, was as automatic as Crawly’s, and his mouth was dry as the new part throbbed and rose and he moved his hand faster and faster.

One finger at a time, the demon had said, but one had been doing enough. Aziraphale uncurled another and without preamble, withdrew the first, then pushed both in together. The sound the demon made was like fire in his veins and he caught a ragged breath as his part achingly surged against his belly.

What, he wondered, if that hole was as sensitive as Eve’s? Not only to the press of fingers, but around it?

Heaven had certainly not said anything against it, he supposed, and Crawly had rather enjoyed tasting him, so it was only fair to offer the same in return.

“Crawly?”

“Gnh?”

“Don’t move.”

The demon gave a shudder the angel took to be agreement, so he withdrew his hand, then moved on his knees to behind the demon. He pressed his palms the demon’s freckled backside, gently widening the gap and granting him a glimpse of the oil-slicked hole.

When he lowered his head and licked it, Crawly almost ricocheted off the edge of the bed.

“Angel!”

Aziraphale reared back, alarmed. “You don’t like it?”

Wild golden eyes were staring at him and his ribs were heaving like a bellows. “You– they didn’t–”

That, Aziraphale thought with a rather mortified blush of pride, was rather gratifying. At least for once, he was one step ahead of the humans. “Well, I would like to try,” he said and oh, the ache was returning to his groin when the demon licked his parted lips and nodded, eyes wide and dark and hungry.

At once, he lowered his head again, darting his tongue against the demon’s new hole. It tasted of very little but oil and the faintest of hints of sulphur, but the taste was nothing compared to the way Crawly’s body tensed under his hands and the urgent, breathless sounds he was making. They rose in pitch as Aziraphale replaced his mouth with his fingers again, and Lord, the ache in his part was growing unbearable.

A glance between Crawly’s splayed knees showed the first drops of spend already spilling. All without being put near any part. It was almost tempting to see if he could make it spill without anything but lips and fingers and not a touch to it, but he glanced to his own, red and upright. If Crawly’s ached half as much…

“Crawly,” he managed to rasp. “Might I… the hole… may I?”

The golden gleam of the demon’s eye found his and Crawly nodded urgently. “Hurry up!”

Aziraphale nodded at once, rising on his knees and the sight of it so close to the hole sent a peculiar pang through him.

“Oil!” Crawly gasped out. “On you too. Easier!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale groped for the oil, spilling and slopping it all over his hand. It would have to be enough, he thought, then pulled his tunic up and wrapped his hand around his part. The shock of his touch, the pang of something urgent and demanding through him had him thrusting against his hand before he could stop himself. Oh _Lord_, _Lord_, no wonder the demon hadn’t stopped fiddling with his in the garden, it was–

“Angel!” Crawly yelped.

Oh! Oh, no hands. Not now. Not like that.

He caught the demon by the hips to steady him, then cautiously prodded against him. “It… it won’t go–”

“Push it in!” Crawly groaned, then cried out again when Aziraphale complied with a firm thrust that slapped their bodies together.

“Oh.” So very tight. So very hot. So very _much_. Aziraphale clung on to the demon’s hips, trying to hold himself steady. It felt like every throb of blood in his body was centred on the place where their bodies met, pulsing, dizzying, stealing every thought out of him. And then Crawly _moved_. “Oh!”

“Good?” Crawly gasped.

“Mm.” Aziraphale tried to match his movements, but it was– that was– everything was–

His hips juddered against the demon, that throb too much to bear, as it was trying to burn its way out of him and – too suddenly – it did, the release smashing in on him like an unexpected wave and driving the breath from his body.

“Oh _Lord_…” He sagged breathless over the demon’s back. “Oh… my...”

Crawly made a sound that wasn’t so good. “Ngh.”

“Sorry, dear,” Aziraphale panted, groping out to brace his hand on the bed. “It was all… rather… much.”

The poor fellow’s part had to be aching so much too. It was only a kindness to reach under their joined bodies and fumblingly find it with his other hand. The demon’s moan rumbled through him, which sounded like a very good sign. Aziraphale wrapped his fingers around the length of Crawly’s part. It was as achingly hot and heavy as his own and the oil on his fingers let it slip smoothly as Crawly hissed and rocked, delicious friction against all sides of Aziraphale’s body.

Oh, the humans were very bright, the angel thought raggedly, his mind scattering as fresh sparks of pleasure were tugged from all different places in his body. They had worked it all out without models or diagrams or…

“Tighter,” Crawly moaned, rutting urgently against Aziraphale’s hand. “Oh… oh Hell…” One of his hands came down, closed around Aziraphale’s. Their fingers threaded together, fitted so snugly, and there was slick hot moisture and the demon squeezed their joined hands, shuddered suddenly and rocked, once, twice, and – with an explosive gasp – was still.

Neither of them moved at once.

Aziraphale found he didn’t want to. Not right away, not with the rise and fall of Crawly’s ribs against his chest and the hot squeeze of the demon’s hand around his and the press of his body around Aziraphale’s spent part. They were breathing together, he noticed, had somehow gone from ragged syncopation to slower, deeper, shared breaths.

“I think,” he murmured, when he found Crawly’s ear between coils of red hair, “the humans have the right idea.”

“Mm.” The demon shifted his weight, which moved him in the most… interesting way around Aziraphale’s part. “Sneaky, hiding it like that.” He arched his back, rubbing against Aziraphale’s chest, and squirmed comfortably. “Mm.”

The angel ran his thumb curiously over the tip of Crawly’s part. He could feel the damp spill of spend on his skin and recalled the kindness the demon had shown the last time.

“Crawly,” he murmured.

“Mm?”

“May I deal with the mess this time?”

A blind man could not have missed the ripple of interest in the demon’s body. “Go on, then.”

There was something delicious in the way Crawly’s hole dragged around his part. His own spend was all over him and dripping from the demon. Something hot and greedy curled in Aziraphale’s belly and be lowered his mouth to lap at it, licking it up. Crawly groped back with one hand, clutching his own buttock, legs splaying wider and Aziraphale licked and lapped, the sharp salt tang strange yet not unfamiliar.

Crawly was panting again, his fingers digging pale dimples into his own flesh, and Aziraphale wondered if – like the Eve’s parts – the strange hidden place would still work so soon after. He withdrew his mouth and slid slick fingers back in and Crawly gave an urgent wail, squirming against him.

It was a _marvellous_ sound, Aziraphale thought dizzily, especially knowing he was the cause himself. He push-pulled his fingers slowly back and forth, deeper, the wet, tight heat of the demon’s body around his finger making his part twitch again.

“A-angel,” Crawly groaned into his arms. “Oh _Hell_…” He moved his hand from his backside, reaching down in front and Aziraphale stared. Lord, it was certainly a very lively piece of flesh, wasn’t it?

And as he pushed his fingers in and out, it grew in Crawly’s grip.

A thought crept upon him, a curious what-if…

“Crawly.” He withdrew his hands – too distracting by far – and patted the demon’s back.

“Gnnnn?”

“Would you lie your back on the bed, please?”

The demon whined, but dragged himself forward onto the bed and flopped over onto his back, pushing his feet against the floor.

“No!” Aziraphale caught his thigh, staying him, hips and legs dangling off the bed, feet scudding on the coarse floor. “No, like this.”

The demon propped himself up on his elbows, squinting down at him. “This?”

Aziraphale nodded, then shuffled around on his knees and pushed Crawly’s legs a little wider, as rudely – and delightfully – as the demon had done to him so many years ago. “I have an idea,” he said, then lowered his head and took Crowley’s part in his mouth.

The demon crashed back on the bed with a cry, his hips leaping, and while he was thoroughly distracted, Aziraphale took the opportunity to slip now-familiar fingers below and _push_. Crawly’s wail redoubled, body twitching between Aziraphale’s mouth and hand, and oh, that was _delicious_.

Aziraphale liked to think he was a fast learner and he certainly enjoyed putting things in his mouth, but nothing could compare with the throbbing heat of Crawly’s part as he bobbed his head to meet each of the demon’s ragged, erratic thrusts. He coiled his tongue, rounded his lips around it, revelling in the press of it to the back of his throat. Salt was on his tongue, the leftovers and the fresh tide coming, and he could only wrap his free arm around Crawly’s hip and cant his head and _swallow_ around him.

That – it transpired – decimated the demon.

Crawly howled, hands clamped over his face, and Aziraphale’s mouth was suddenly hotter and fuller and wet and salted and he swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, tongue swirling and catching all that Crawly had spilled.

He probably continued to suck and lick far too long after, but he couldn’t care less. The mess was everywhere from the first time, and it was only fair that he cleaned it up. His mouth was leaving wet, warm, reddish marks on Crawly’s thigh when a trembling hand threaded into his hair and pulled.

He rose up on his knees, over the demon, and at once, a hungry mouth latched on to his and that flickering, clever tongue was between his lips and skinny legs wrapped around him as greedily as skinny arms and Lord, the ache that had slowly been building in his groin throbbed at fever pitch.

He didn’t ask. Couldn’t really, not when their mouths were slipping and rubbing and nibbling and licking one another. Didn’t ask, but _pushed_ and oh, the sensation of a moan passing from Crawly’s lips to his was like poetry. He rocked forward, inching deeper and deeper, until they were flesh to flesh and he was trapped utterly in the serpent’s grip.

Crawly broke away from his lips to stare at him, eyes dark and wide and lovely. “Again?”

He sounded so surprised.

No wonder, Aziraphale thought with a little shame. The last time, as soon as the lesson was done, he had donned his clothes and hardly taken the time to say goodbye.

Instead of speaking, he slowly started to move. Slowly, because one had to learn everything and last time had been fast and messy and urgent, and this was another kind of lesson, a lesson that drew small, sharp sounds from Crawly’s throat and made him cling harder, nails biting into shoulders through his clothes, thighs squeezing like a vice, hot breaths panting against his lips.

Lord, it was hard to maintain his pace, not when his body’s urgent needs demanded friction and pressure and release, but he fixed his eyes on Crawly’s, cataloguing each small sound, each expression, each skitter of his hands and jerk of his hips.

The demon keened and groaned and squirmed under him, his body tensing and tightening and all at once, sagging and shivering and glassy-eyed. Spent in every way, Aziraphale realised, the thought sending a curious and searcing pang through him and he let his body move as it will, thrusting harder and harder, each press of their bodies together drawing little puffs of breath from Crawly who continued to shiver and moan weakly and Lord, he was so very_ beautiful _like that and Lord, he was flushed and warm and had given himself so utterly and- and-

Aziraphale’s hips pushed up a last time and the release washed through him, his hands falling on either side of Crawly’s hips to brace himself on the bed.

“Gnnn,” Crawly murmured, throwing a limp arm around his shoulders and pulling him down into… into an embrace Aziraphale couldn’t – didn’t want to – fight it. Another arm followed, holding him, cradling. Chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing syncopated but gradually, gradually sinking into pace with one another.

“Mm,” he agreed, his face falling to the curve of Crawly’s throat. It was hot and damp and his tongue sneaked out to catch a taste. Salt and warmth and Crawly squeezed him warmly.

For a long while they stayed like that, then he _had_ to push back. Oughtn’t indulge. Not that much. A little bit, for educational purposes, was _fine_. Anything more was treading dangerously close to human.

Crawly didn’t even move, sprawled there, legs splayed, limp and soft and satisfied. “Good lessons,” he murmured, watching Aziraphale from beneath heavy lids as the angel flushed and straightened his tunic.

“I–” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I got a little carried away. Sorry.”

The demon snickered, rocking his head from side to side. “S’fine,” he hissed, sliding a little further onto the bed, limbs all a tangle. “S’all good.” He gave a sigh, a long, satisfied one, and sagged completely on the bed. “Mm. Thanksssssss.”

“F-for what?”

The smile on the demon’s face was sleepy and beatific. “Answering my questions.”

Aziraphale ducked his head with a small smile. “Well,” he said, trying to ignore the silly warm feeling spreading through his chest. “Thank you for indulging my lessons.”

One side of Crawly’s lips curled up. “My pleasssssure.” He patted the side of the bed. “Sssstay?”

The flush returned. “I really ought to…” The angel jerked his thumb towards the door. “Maybe I’ll see you downstairs.”

The demon nodded in drowsy acknowledgement and closed his eyes. Aziraphale watched him for a moment, and when the demon started to snore softly, he inched a little closer, drawing a thin blanket over him. The desert nights could be terribly cold after all.

“Sleep well,” Aziraphale murmured, then turned to leave.

He paused.

When he left a moment later, there was only a circle of oil left on the floor where a vial had once stood.


	3. Lesson 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’ve come a long way, haven’t they?”  
The familiar voice send a prickle of some… unsettlingly pleasant sensation down Aziraphale’s spine as someone fell into step beside him. It had been what? Five centuries? No. No, he could deny he knew far more specifically than that. Four-hundred and ninety six of the human years, seven of their months and nine of their days.  
He glanced sideways, then blinked in surprise. Crawly was wearing the local garb, but he seemed to have decided on a different approach. Certainly there were subtle differences in his anatomy that were emphasised by the belt cinching in at his waist.  
Gold eyes flicked sideway. “What?”  
“You–” Aziraphale hesitated, unsure how to continue politely. “You’ve… changed.”

Eden’s walls had been impressive, but they had been crafted by the Almighty and the ranks of Heaven.

Aziraphale looked around at the gates in admiration as he walked through them and into the city. They towered high above him, set into the vast walls that circled the city. Not as big as Eden, but these walls and gates and towers had been constructed by the small and fragile hands of humans.

It was quite remarkable, he thought as he walked deeper into the city.

The leap from mud-brick houses and caverns to towns had been a joy to watch, but now, they gathered in such numbers and made themselves defences and walls and a city filled with tens of thousands of people.

“They’ve come a long way, haven’t they?”

The familiar voice send a prickle of some… unsettlingly pleasant sensation down Aziraphale’s spine as someone fell into step beside him. It had been what? Five centuries? No. No, he could deny he knew far more specifically than that. Four-hundred and ninety six of the human years, seven of their months and nine of their days.

He glanced sideways, then blinked in surprise. Crawly was wearing the local garb, but he seemed to have decided on a different approach. Certainly there were subtle differences in his anatomy that were emphasised by the belt cinching in at his waist.

Gold eyes flicked sideway. “What?”

“You–” Aziraphale hesitated, unsure how to continue politely. “You’ve… changed.”

Crawly glanced down at himself. “You don’t like it?”

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment too long, recalling their previous encounters and the demon assuming a particular form as they– while they–

Heat spread up the back of his neck. “I hardly think my opinion matters,” he said, flapping a hand. “I can hardly judge, after all. I have tried adjusting certain parts before, haven’t I?”

There was the smallest of twists to Crawly’s mouth. “I remember,” he – no, no, at this moment she said. She adjusted the flowing shawl that covered her hair. “Are you busy?”

Technically, no. Technically, there were no blessings or miracles due for two days. And yet technically, he knew he really ought to say yes because, for some ineffable reason, when he was around the demon, he found himself wandering down unexpected avenues of thought and deed.

“Er.”

Crawly’s face lit up. “Well, that’s what I was thinking.”

Aziraphale blinked stupidly. “I beg your pardon.”

“Erring?” Crawly prompted. “That’s what you called it, isn’t it?”

Ah. Yes. That. The very thing that popped into his head every time he thought of the demon and their previous… encounters. The memories were inevitably hot and flushed and pink and frequently left him shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

More than once, he had surreptitiously slipped a hand under his robes. More than once, he had imagined his fist curled in red waves.

It had to stop, it really did. Twice was enough. They were– _He_ was an angel, for Heaven’s sake! Such base and human behaviour was beneath him.

“I don’t see what else there is for us to understand,” he said as briskly as he could, not daring to look at Crawly for fear of… what? Disappointment? “After all, we know how all the holes and interlocking parts work now, don’t we?” He smiled, his cheeks taut with the strain of it. “Nothing else to learn.”

Crawly didn’t say anything for a minute, still walking along beside him, then there was a soft “Hm.”

It was astonishing how much cynicism could be infused into a single sound.

Don’t ask, Aziraphale chided himself. Don’t ask. You know where that leads and we really, _really_ must be firm about this. After all, it’s not as if there are many more options, are there? We have quite run the gamut.

Only…

Only, Crawly _was_ in a different form, one Aziraphale had only partially tried. Perhaps there was some other aspect that he had overlooked.

They got another dozen paces before he turned, irritated, to the demon. “What do you mean ‘hm’?”

Crawly gave him that irrepressible sunny grin. “I found something you’re going to want to see.”

Something in relation to erring…

Oh _Lord_…

The street around them was teeming with people.

“Well, I hardly think it’s appropriate here, do you?”

Crawly’s hand wrapped around his wrist and it was like a spark of lightning through his veins. “Come with me,” she said eagerly.

“Crawly!” Aziraphale protested, tugging at her hand. “I can walk on my own volition!”

She flashed him a smile, then slid her hand down and abruptly, their fingers… well, they interlocked, and that sent another flare of peculiar sensation through Aziraphale. It was… quite lovely, the way their hands fitted so neatly together. He shivered as her thumb ran along his and when she pulled him onwards, he didn’t protest again.

Crawly led him through a labyrinth of streets and into a small mudbrick house. The interior was modestly decorated, but Crawly hurried them through it and into another room, this one smaller and as plush and soft as down.

A low, broad bed stood against one wall, silk drapes swaying over the open window, carrying in the breeze and the scents of the city. Decorative patterns wove across the wall and cushions littered the bed. There was also a table adorned with a beautiful pitcher and engraved cups.

It was entirely too lovely, as if it had been designed to entice him. Aziraphale darted a glance at Crawly who ducked her head sheepishly.

“Thought I’d make things a bit more comfortable this time.”

This time.

As if something was going to happen.

“Crawly–” Aziraphale cut himself off, then sighed. “My dear, I’m only here to see this… item you’ve discovered. I didn’t mean I would be… staying or anything.”

The demon’s face fell. “Oh. Right.” She pushed her veil down, raking her fingers through her hair. “Yeah. Fair enough.” She gave him a quick, careful smile. “No time like the present, eh?” She drifted over to a small chest, dark as a shadow in the small, bright room, and dug out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. She approached him, then hesitated. “When I said something, I meant… a few.”

Aziraphale tried to master his expression. “Go on, then. Let me see.”

Crawly plucked open the cloth and spread it open around three objects. They were all of a similar shape, thick rods with a rounded tip, all of them polished to a smooth lustre. He picked one of them up, examining it. It was made of perfectly carved wood and it even had…

In fact, it looked rather like…

“Oh good Lord!” He dropped it back into the cloth in Crawly’s hand. “Crawly! What on earth–?”

The demon was trying very hard not to grin. Her lips were twitching. “Humans make them,” she said, picking one of them up. This one was even more peculiar, longer, with rounded tips at both ends, as if one had simply stuck two of them together.

“Well, yes, I can tell that much!” Aziraphale exclaimed indignantly. “They also draw them all over the place! I hardly see why you think I would want to see a-a-a…” He flapped his hand helplessly. “Some kind of ornament!”

The demon blinked owlishly at him. “Ornament?”

Aziraphale gestured to the… admittedly beautifully-made objects. “These decorations!”

A slow smile spread over Crawly’s face. “These _aren’t_ decorations, angel,” she said. “They’re… s’pose you could call them… accessories.”

“Accessories?” Aziraphale eyed them, bewildered. “For…” Crawly’s expression suddenly made a great deal of sense and heat was suddenly rushing back up the nape of his neck. He cleared his throat. “You mean to say humans use… put… do _things_ with them?”

Crawly nodded. “For times when there isn’t someone with Adam’s part,” she said, setting down the biggest one and picking up another that looked like it was made of carved and polished jade. “I like this one best.”

Aziraphale’s mind stopped short. Crawly. In her present form. That device. She _liked_ that one best. Did that mean she had used it? Or was it purely in an aesthetic sense? Or both? Oh, _Lord_, the thought of her using it…

“But _how_?” he burst out. “Surely, you need… it’s better with…”

“Someone else?” the demon suggested. She nodded. “But if you can’t find–” She shrugged her skinny shoulders. “Some people get lonely.”

Aziraphale remembered too many nights, holding on to secrets and whispers and oil and hands and the warmth of another body on, in, around his. To use one’s hand was a weak substitute, but it was better than being utterly alone with no touches at all.

Crawly held the one she liked best out to him and without thinking, he took it. It was still warm from her hand, though far harder than Adam’s part had ever been. He stared at it and turned it over between his fingers, the carved patterns as smooth was weather-worn marble.

“You… like this one best,” he said, his voice as steady as he could make it.

Crawly nodded, watching him, all golden eyes and hair of flame. “I thought you might want to try it,” she said softly and under his startled stare, colour flooded her face. “I mean – it’s just – it feels, _good_ all right? And you seem to like feeling good like that! And I wanted–” She flailed a hand.

“You wanted?” Aziraphale prompted, feeling a very long way away from his body and the item in his hands, the item that had been– that Crawly had– that she thought he might–

“Wanted to make you feel good,” she mumbled. “Like you did for me, last time. Only fair.” 

Aziraphale’s breath escaped in a gust. Of all the things to be offered by a demon, generosity was not something he had expected. He looked down at the object, then back at her. “But if there are two of us, why would we need something like this?”

A crooked smile curled her lips. “You know men use the second hole together?”

“Well, yes…”

Crawly hesitated, then reach out and closed Aziraphale’s hand around the object, her fingers firm and warm. “The women…” Her tongue darted out along her lips, drawing Aziraphale’s eye. Oh, he remembered that tongue and how it had ruined him. “Sometimes, they use these when they’re together.”

Aziraphale’s mind presented some very captivating images. “You– Is that why you’re in that form?”

Crawly made a face. “Nah. Just fancied a change.” She ran her thumb along Aziraphale’s knuckles. “I liked it when you had Eve’s part too. Wondered what it would be like it we both tried it at the same time.”

Damn, Aziraphale thought helplessly. Damn, damn, damn.

Really, _really_ he ought to walk away. He ought to have walked away the moment the demon appeared by his side. He ought never to have come to a warm, secluded room with a soft bed and sweet treats on a platter and taken this… plaything of the demon in his hand, knowing where it had been and what it had been used for.

I shouldn’t, he insisted to himself. I really shouldn’t.

But surely, encouraging a demon to kind and generous acts was a good thing? And it was something… new that he really ought to be aware of. Technically, practically, these were more of the human peculiarities that would really make matters simpler. One had to know them to understand them and if that meant–

No! Absolutely not!

“It’s very kind of you, my dear,” he said. “So very kind.”

Crawly made a face. “Shut up,” she said, getting pinker by the moment. She squeezed his hand around the object. “Can I?”

No, he was going to say. Definitely no. And then she shattered his resolve into a thousand pieces with a single word.

“Please?”

Oh, _Lord_, he thought helplessly. He would have needed to be carved from stone to resist the bright, warm, eager look in her eyes, such hope and anticipation in her expression. She sought _him_ out. She wanted to share pleasure with _him_. Oh, he ought to have taken a stand after the first time, but once a ballast is knocked unsteady, unless you tend the damage, it will always be weaker.

“Why me?” he asked, lost. “I’m – there are thousands of humans who know these things. You could have any of them you want! Look at you, for Heaven’s sake!”

The demon stared at him, then her smile turned softer, something warm and lovely uncurling in Aziraphale’s middle. “You’re much more interesting than they are.”

Aziraphale’s words abandoned him. “Oh.”

“And,” she added, eyes bright, “you answered my questions. I– that doesn’t happen much. Not to me.”

“Well… ah…” Aziraphale shifted self-consciously. “I-I’m glad I was… helpful.”

“And good.”

“I… I beg your pardon?”

“You,” Crawly said, as if she couldn’t understand why he was perplexed. “You were good. I mean, plenty of your lot would have just given me a kick and sent me on my way. Probably a smiting too. Or a discorporation.” She shrugged with that small smile. “Don’t get much goodness. Or kindness. Or anything really. Not someone like me.”

Aziraphale stared at her and her face went the colour of her hair.

“Anyway!” She tossed her burden onto the bed and undid the belt of her dress. “Yeah. So…” With a couple of practised movements, the belt was off and she shimmied out of the dress, pulling it up and over her head. Her hair spilled around her freckled shoulders and oh, damnation…

“M-my dear,” Aziraphale blustered, trying his level best not to stare at her and utterly failing. The flat, bone-jutting planes of his form had softened somehow. Small, neat breasts – a handful each, his brain traitorously offered – with rose-tipped nipples. The curving v down to the valley between her thighs thatched with copper curls.

“I know,” she said with a crooked smile as she pinched the flesh on her hips. “Turns out you go this shape, some padding comes with it.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and before he could turn away, spread her legs. “You know how this bit works, don’t you?”

The angel’s mouth was dry as dust as he blinked and nodded. Warmer, pinker skin – already shimmering and wet - was visible beneath the curls. He could recall the anatomy diagrams from the Heavenly lessons. Very straightforward, divided by section, colour-coded. Thought he couldn’t help realising they had omitted both the soft curls that Crawly had adopted and had certainly avoided mentioning that rather pleasant spot Aziraphale had discovered on their first encounter.

“Thing is,” she said with an impatient huff. “I… it… mine doesn’t work very well.”

Aziraphale forced his eyes back to her face. “What was that?”

“This,” she said, waving expressively to the region in question. “I mean, it’s all right, but it’s… well, I can’t help the feeling I’m doing something wrong. I mean, I saw how you went when I…” She rubbed her fingers against it and even from across the room, he could tell it was far too hard and almost winced in sympathy. “See? Nothing!”

“That… you do it that way?”

“S’what I did to you, isn’t it?” She looked up at him, a wide-eyed, hopeful look on her face. “Can you fix me?”

It was as if the pit dropped out of his belly.

“Oh, my dear,” he said gently. “Is this why you really found me?”

She ducked her head away, shrugging. “No. Not really. S’the stuff I found. Wanted to show you.” She gave herself another exasperated rub, then glared unhappily at her hand. “Maybe a bit.” Those golden eyes flicked back to him. “Don’t laugh.”

She had come to him for help. Confused and lost and she had turned to him.

Oh Lord…

He was across the room before he had even made the conscious decision and knelt down beside the edge of the bed in front of her. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Now, show me how you do it, exactly.”

She demonstrated again, the rough, hard rubbing drawing small pained sounds that were uncomfortable to hear.

“Oh, no!” Aziraphale caught her wrist. “Don’t be in such a rush, my dear! It’s not like Adam’s part. It doesn’t just react on contact.” He got up and sat down on the bed beside her. “Here.” He slipped his hand down to cover hers. “Like this.”

Gently, he guided her fingers to trace lightly along the soft folds.

“You can’t just bash away at it as the males do,” he murmured. “Theirs is all on the outside and that’s where it pleases them. With these parts…” He dragged a little more firmly with their fingers and Crawly hissed softly between her teeth. “You see? It takes a little more familiarity.”

Crawly’s breathing was becoming more staggered. “D’you get lessons?” she asked, her hips tilting towards their hands.

Aziraphale flushed to the tips of his ears, remembering dark rooms under the cover of night where he had grown to know every part of himself. “We were given diagrams,” he said, which was not entirely a lie.

The demon nodded. Her other hand was bunched in the covers and he drew her hand up now to that rather pleasant spot. It was as if a lightning bolt had passed through her, her body jerking suddenly. “Oh fuck!”

“You see?” Aziraphale showed her how to gently circle, then began to slowly press-rub. Her hand was shivering under his and the sounds she was making were sending delicious shudders the length of his spine. “Gently does it…” He touched his hand lightly between her shoulder blades to steady her and she jolted again. “Crawly? Too much?”

She shook her head then yanked her hand from under his and covered his instead, pushing it further down. “Inside?” she asked raggedly.

Aziraphale’s heart gave a thud against his ribs, but his lips murmured, “Lie down, dear.”

She leaned back into his hand and he lowered her, her eyes finding his and he let her push his hand down, down, down. The heat of her was making his head spin and when he found her entrance, when he pushed two fingers inside her, the keen in her throat and the arch of her body made him tremble with… with Lord only knew what.

Helpless, wordless, he rocked his hand, plunging his fingers deeper. Crawly was a mess, grasping at the covers and the back of his hand, her feet scrabbling on the edge of the bed. And yet, he could take his eyes off her face. There was something wonderful about watching rapture in another being, but it was so much more potent to know you were the cause.

Those magma gold eyes found his, hazy and darkened with want, and her tongue darted along her lower lip. Softer lips, he noticed, and as he pressed the heel of his hand to the apex of her sex, he dipped down to swallow the cry she uttered. Her hand leapt from the covers to his hair, fingers twisting with such a delicious ache that he moaned into the kiss, his tongue darting against hers, reacquainting himself with the taste of her, the spice and sweetness and under his hand, she shuddered and shivered and cried out again, clinging to him.

He didn’t move, didn’t lift his head away, their lips ghosting with every breath, his fingers buried warm and deep within her. Her thighs closed on his hand, pinning him there, and she gave a small, breathless laugh.

“Right.” The tip of her nose nudged his. “Was doing it wrong.” Her hips rocked up and he bit down a groan as his fingers were pushed to the very knuckle. “Mm.”

“You–” He swallowed hard, his throat dreadfully dry. “A little practise will help.”

She stared up at him, then grinned. Before he could work out the meaning in her expression, she moved, wriggling like a snake, and he was tumbled onto his back on the bed, the flushed demon sitting astride him, tugging at his belt.

“Crawly!” he yelped.

She grinned at him, her hair a wild cascade around her, her eyes gleaming. “You said I need to practise.” His belt unravelled. “Come on, angel! I need to see it with a demonstration model again. Bet you had one of those too.”

Well, they had, but…

She scrambled off him, pushing his robes up as much as she could. “Come on! Work with me here!” She held up a hand. “Or I’ll resort to other measures.”

And if she did that, he would be stranded here, clothesless and without enough miracles to make himself a fresh set.

“Wait, wait, wait!” He gently pushed her aside and got up. “Honestly, you are dreadfully bossy.”

She sprawled on the bed, grinning at him. “You like it.”

He snorted. “I hardly think so.” Still, he set aside his belt on the small stool beside the wall and disrobed, folding the cream cloth neatly by. Even last time, he had not disrobed and he felt oddly exposed, despite all they had done. “Which… I mean, do you want… the whole? Or only the part?”

“Whole?” Crawly suggested. “Might as well try it, eh? You might find something new as well?”

Aziraphale turned. “Such as?”

The demon grinned. “Try it and see?”

It wasn’t much of a change in the lower reaches, nothing unfamiliar there, but to his surprise, his chest settled in a far softer, plumper arrangement. He eyed his newly-sprung breasts doubtfully. “Are they meant to be so…” He made a vague gesture. “I mean, they are only there to produce milk, aren’t they?”

There was something in Crawly’s eyes that said she knew more about it than he did on this front. “Here,” she said, beckoning him back towards the edge of the bed. She scrambled to the edge and sat, knees wide apart. “Let me try something.”

“What, exactly?” he inquired, approaching to stand between her legs.

She gave him one of those wide, brilliant smiles, then caught a hold of his hips and her mouth latched on to one of his nipples.

Aziraphale startled himself with the moan that poured out of him. And, he noticed belatedly, his hands were in her hair, holding her there. And Crawly sucked and it… it did _something_ in his Eve’s parts, hot, fluttering and definitely new. 

“Wh-what on earth?”

She tilted her head back. “S’good, isn’t it?”

“But… but they’re only meant…”

“Pfft!” Crawly laughed, squeezing his hips. “They said all these parts were only mean for making people, didn’t they? This is the problem with your lot. All the boring practical stuff and they miss out all the fun.” She slid her hands over his hips and Aziraphale flushed when she grabbed his backside and squeezed. “S’like all the different parts are trigger points.” She tugged him. “Come on. I want to try something.”

Aziraphale wriggled out of her arms and sat down on the bed, pushing herself up it. “Something?” he echoed warily. “What kind of… something?”

Crawly crawled up beside him and grasped his wrist, lifting it to her lips. The brush of the soft skin against the fine skin of his inner wrist drew a startled gasp from him. She nodded, eagerly, then moved down his arm and a gentle bite to his inner elbow earned a yelp.

“See?” She darted her tongue out against the crook of his elbow and breathed lightly on it.

“Oh _Lord_…”

“It’s all over these ones!” Crawly said. “I mean, I thought my bottom bit was broken, but everything else is– I mean, these!” She pointed at her breasts. The rosy nipples that had been mostly flat before were pointed peaks now. “Don’t even ask me how these work, but– gnah!”

Aziraphale couldn’t help admiring the way her breast fitted perfectly in his hand, the nipple hardened against his thumb. “It’s like the Adam’s part,” he said. “I mean, look how it–”

She cut off his words, her mouth crushing against his, her body writhing and warm in his arms. Their breasts rubbed together and oh, that was lovely. Aziraphale tugged her closer, raking his fingers down her back, then yelped when her fingers dipped down between his thighs.

“Crawly!”

“Practise,” she grinned against his lips, even as his thighs parted of their own volition. Her mouth covered his again, her tongue licking as greedily at his mouth as her fingers did between his legs. Her other hand was in her hair and he groaned into her mouth, sinking back on the bed to give her more room to manoeuvre.

Her hair fell around them in a flaming curtain and he almost whined in protest when her lips moved off his. Only almost, for the moment those molten lips touched his throat, sucking hotly on the skin, he felt the charge of lightning in his veins, his hips leaping against her questing fingers. His own hand trembled across her back and up, but before he could reach for her hair, she was moving lower, lips and tongue and hot, hot breath on each of his breasts.

Between that and the plunging press of her fingers into his body, Aziraphale clamped his hands over his face, gasping, shaking, certain, so very sure, this was how he would discorporate. His entire body was a flickering, thrumming mess of sensation and he noticed too late that her bites were moving lower, teasing over his belly around his navel and venturing closer and closer to her fingers.

“C-Crawly!” he protested. “You don’t have to–”

“Want to,” the growl came back to it. “Tasted so good last time.”

Aziraphale flamed from head to toe, hands shaking over his face. She was being… Lord, she was being thorough, fingers and tongue working in harmony to scatter his thoughts and make him resolve into nothingness.

Movement over him made him peek – curious – between his fingers. It was quite the view. Crawly had straddled his body, her knees pressing on either side of him, which meant she was laid bare, pink and wet and he could not help but reach out and stroke his fingers along her sex.

A hot gust of a breath rippled on his thighs. “Angel!” Crawly protested, injured. “I’m trying to practise here!”

Aziraphale laughed unsteadily. “Concentrate better,” he retorted and slid his fingers back inside her.

Crawly yipped, then seemed to take it as a challenge against him, her body sinking lower over his, abdomen teasing against his breasts, that damned wicked tongue making, Lord… how was _he_ mant to concentrate if she was…

Ah. Yes. The very reason she had lured him here…

He groped across the bed, finding one of the objects she had displayed. The jade one. His hand shook around it as she plunged her fingers back into him, his whole body a livewire that was giving off sparks in every direction. Damn it all, she– it would be completely– she _couldn’t_ outdo him! It would be– well, even if no one else knew, he would and the jade device was promising. Her favourite, he remembered biting on his lower lip to stifle a moan as she _sucked_ on that lovely point, his heels jabbing at the bed.

Taking a gulping breath, he caught one of her thighs, holding her steady, then – with no warning – slid that precious object of hers home.

Crawly arched up with a sharp, gasping cry. “Fuck! Fuck, angel!”

He froze. “Bad?”

She shook her head, her hair rippling down her back. “A-again,” she gasped out, sinking back down over him.

What could he do but comply, especially when it made her keen and squirm and oh sweet Heaven, her tongue was matching each plunging stroke and her thumb stuttered at the apex of his sex. He… he could do that too. Could. Could concentrate and be sure she was enjoying it every bit as much as he was, though his mind felt quite on the verge of splitting apart at the seams. It was… there was far too much, too much altogether. The scent of her, the soft moans, the wet slip of jade and skin, diluted sunlight on flaming hair, and her fingers of her other hand slipped back, under, between, to his breast and _squeezed_.

“Oh!” Aziraphale yelped, hips lifting, his hands scrabbling on her skin. “Oh!”

“S’it, angel,” Crawly breathed. “S’it.” And then… and then she _bit_ him on the inner thigh and his world imploded into starlight around him. 

It seemed an immeasurable time before he could make sense of things again. The room came back into focus and sound drifted in, the soft, urgent sound of the demon and the slip of jade on skin still at work. Aziraphale turned his head, greeted by her back, her body curled on itself.

Mutely, he rolled onto his side, shaping himself around her back and reached down over her side, finding her urgently moving hands.

“Let me,” he breathed, his voice slurred and sated.

She drew her hand back and he found the device again. Slowly, he thought. Slow better sometimes. Slow and deep and with every stroke, the edge of his hand rubbed against the peak of her sex. She clutched at his arm with one hand and he could see the other tweaking and tugging at her breasts, her hips moving faster and more eagerly until she quivered and gasped and her nails bit into his arm.

He couldn’t say why, but he kept moving the device, gentle and slow and drew more of those lovely little shudders out of her. Only when she reached down and still his hand did he stop, both of them holding on to one another, his fingers and hers both sopping.

“Better,” she confided, breathing hard. “Like that.”

He buried his face in her hair. “Mm. Lubrication.”

She laughed and pulled his hand – and her little object – out of her body, a groan slipping from her too. It slid from his fingers, dropping to rest on the covers, and Crawly pulled his hand up to gently and fastidiously lick his fingers clean. Odd, Aziraphale thought in a comfortable daze, that even that sent little flickers of interest through his spent body.

When she was done, Crawly hugged his arm against her chest.

They were breathing together, Aziraphale noticed. Could feel the press of her breast against his palm, the push of her ribs against his own chest, with each rise-and-fall.

“Angel,” Crawly murmured drowsily. “D’you fancy something to eat?”

“Aside from you?” Aziraphale turned scarlet the moment the words left his mouth. “Ah. I mean–”

Crawly’s laughter cut him off and she squeezed his arm again. “Yeah. Apart from me.”

A meal. That was… considerably more intimate than a simple drink. Acquaintances did that. Friends did that. Not… not whatever they were to one another.

And yet, another thought came fast upon the first, they were lying together sweat-sheened and naked in Crawly’s borrowed bed. What was a meal compared to that? What was a meal compared to the way their bodies had known one another?

“Yes,” he breathed, not daring to say it louder, lest it be overheard.

Crawly’s ribs rose-fell in a sigh that could only be relief. “Yeah?”

“I would…” He hesitated. It _wasn’t_ a lie, but it still carried the weight of one to say it. “I would like that.”

She wriggled back in his embrace. “But not yet.” The demon’s voice was thick with sleepiness. “M’tired out now.”

Aziraphale rubbed his cheek against the cascade of her hair. He ought to go, really. It was one thing to… indulge in this curiosity, but tucking one’s self up with a demon, trusting one’s self to sleep safely with a demon, was hardly good practise. Crawly _was_ still the enemy, no matter how–

A quiet little squeak broke through his circling thoughts and he lifted his head to peer down at the demon.

Crawly’s features were smoothed out in sleep, gentler somehow, and more relaxed. With every indrawn breath, the exhale carried a squeak. It was all rather… adorable. He tried to draw his arm loose, but she cuddled it closer and nestled against him with a smile that was so pure and so happy that Aziraphale stared at her, heart in his mouth.

Oh, he thought. Oh dear.


	4. Lesson 4 - 3004BC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rain was really lashing down.  
The amusement of the locals had turned to alarm when the lightning ripped across the sky. Many of them had run up to the ark, pounding at the sides of the hull, begging and screaming. Noah – obedient to the Almighty – had gathered all the people he was meant to and Aziraphale – likewise obedient – had sealed the doors.  
The angel stood on the deck, soaked to the skin, staring down. The water was waist-deep and rising. The adults were carrying their children. They were screaming and pleading and among them, a red-haired figure was moving with purpose. Wherever he went, small children and people seemed to vanish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advanced warning, my lovelies. This chapter immediately follows the end of the Mesopotamia - 3004BC scene. It is not a light and fluffy chapter. Confronting death, grieving and the very human way of dealing with it.

**Mesopotamia – 3004BC**

The rain was really lashing down.

The amusement of the locals had turned to alarm when the lightning ripped across the sky. Many of them had run up to the ark, pounding at the sides of the hull, begging and screaming. Noah – obedient to the Almighty – had gathered all the people he was meant to and Aziraphale – likewise obedient – had sealed the doors.

The angel stood on the deck, soaked to the skin, staring down. The water was waist-deep and rising. The adults were carrying their children. They were screaming and pleading and among them, a red-haired figure was moving with purpose. Wherever he went, small children and people seemed to vanish.

Aziraphale turned away hastily, hurrying to the prow of the vessel, trying not to pay attention to the decreasing numbers and to the sudden surge in life in a mountain range about one hundred miles to the north. That was nothing at all to do with him. He had done what he was told. There were no specifics beyond ensuring the building of the ark and keeping Noah and his safe.

Eventually, the screams and the pounding of fists faded, even though the rain kept on drumming down on him. The humans were below. Water was sheeting off the deck, gouting out through openings in the rails, and the world was dark and bleak, lit only occasionally by sheets of lightning across the pitch sky. Was it day or night? It was impossible to tell.

As the wind howled, he huddled there, wings unfurled above him against the rain, his arms wrapped around his upraised knees.

How long he sat, he didn’t know, but a thump on the deck nearby made him look up.

Crawly was standing there, a ball of orange hellfire held – sizzling – between his hands. He was drenched too, his long hair in wet ropes around his gold-tinted face, his black wings trailing, soaked and heavy, on the deck around them.

“There you are, angel.” He sounded breathless. “Almost missed you. Dark out there.”

Aziraphale nodded, staring numbly at the hellfire. The one thing in all creation that could destroy him and Crawly had sought him out, armed with it, after watching the acts of Heaven destroying the world he enjoyed so much.

Crawly strode closer and instinct had Aziraphale on his feet, wings flaring, divine light flooding him.

The demon recoiled. “Oi!” What on earth–? What right did he have to be offended, coming at someone with a weapon? Crawly flapped a hand at him. “Wind it down a bit!”

“Me?” Aziraphale stared at him incredulously, blinking water from his eyes. “You first, demon!”

“Eh?”

“You!” Aziraphale jabbed an accusing finger at the ball of hellfire. “I’m not in the mood to fight you, Crawly!”

“Fight…?” Crawly stared down at the fire in confusion, then his eyes went round. “Oh! Shit! No!” He clapped his hands together, snuffing out the flame and leaving them in the dark. “No! I– it– there wasn’t any light! I couldn’t see well enough to find the… the zoo-boat.”

Aziraphale stared at the faint outline of the demon, very grateful it was too dark for them to really see one another very well. “Oh.” He swallowed hard, his throat painfully tight. “I see.” His hands twitched into fists by his sides. “I– you oughtn’t be here.”

“Yeah, I know.” Wet fabric slithered on the deck. “And you don’t want to be here, do you?”

No, he really didn’t, not sitting and listening to the weeping of the few surviving humans below and the knowledge that if the sky cleared and he looked over the side, they would be surrounded by a sea of cold, dead flesh. Bodies, large and small and all left there by him and by Heaven while a _demon_ swept as many to safety as he could.

He made it to the side in time to… what did the humans call it again? Vomiting? Yes. A physical demonstration of internal revulsion.

A warm hand between his shoulders made him flinch, but the demon only rubbed his back.

“Come on,” he said. “I found somewhere dry.”

Aziraphale gave a tired, hollow laugh. “Dry,” he echoed.

How he would explain it later, he didn’t know, even as he let the demon shift the world around them and deposit them in a wooden building that was indeed warm and dry. Sunlight sliced through a crack between the doors, letting him know just how far across the world they had travelled.

The room was small and simple, a sleeping mat unrolled along one wall, a table scattered with papers and inks against another. The fire pit in the middle of the room sprang to life, flames crackling warmly, driving away some of the chill that was clinging to Aziraphale’s bones.

Crawly was in front of him, untying the cord of Aziraphale’s robe with clever, busy hands. He was chattering away about something or other, some nonsense, the sound rushing as steadily as the raindrops had pounded on his wings. He stood, shivering and useless, as Crawly stripped his wet clothes from him and wrung them out with the twist of a miracle. The robe was draped over a clothes stand by the wall and the demon returned with some coarse fabric, towelling warmth back into Aziraphale’s chilly skin.

“And I thought,” Crawly continued as Aziraphale’s ears finally tuned back in, “China was always nice at this time of year and definitely far enough away and there were plenty of houses lying empty so here we are.” He had one of Aziraphale’s shivering hands between his, rubbing it gently with the rag of cloth, and offered an awkward smile. “Better than sitting out there, wet as a fish, isn’t it?”

There was no reason for it, but Aziraphale’s legs folded under him and he sagged down onto his knees on the mat-lined floor. Crawly followed, dropping Aziraphale’s hand to steady him, leaning down, closer, searching his face.

“You all right?” His face twisted up in a grimace. “Course you aren’t. I mean, who would be? Can’t believe they made you stand by and watch all that and so many people as–”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale cut across him, holding up his hands, trying to stop the words and the reminders and the bodies and the screams.

“Can’t?”

“Can’t,” he repeated. Can’t say anything about it. Can’t do anything about it. Can’t… understand it. Can’t… can’t anything. He took a shuddering breath, shaking his head. It was… a lot. Too much. To stand by, to watch, to listen, to _do nothing_.

All at once, there were hands in his hair, carding through it, over and over.

“Hey, stay with me, angel.” Crawly was in front of him, so close, wriggling closer, almost in Aziraphale’s lap. Still wet, Aziraphale noticed. Cold too. Mutely, he reached out both hands, tugged at Crawly’s robe, pulled it up, over his head, heavier than usual.

At once, damp skin pressed to his, and Crawly wrapped himself utterly around Aziraphale as if trying to press his heat through every point of contact into Aziraphale’s cold, shivering body. His hands ran in widening circles at the points where wings would emerge, palms rough and warm and gentle.

There was something comforting in the weight of his body, the warmth, the tangible solidity of it.

Aziraphale splayed his palms on Crawly’s sides, the demon’s ribs palpable through his drum-tight skin. The angel laid his fingers in the spaces between, feeling the rise-fall, the in-out of Crawly’s every breath and, close to his thumbs, the steady throb of his heartbeat.

They didn’t really need them, but the little details made everything a little more human. One could hardly understand a human if one didn’t understand how they felt when their heart skipped a beat or their breath caught. Or… or how it felt to see those things suddenly stilled.

The shudder that tore through him shocked him with its intensity and Crawly’s arms tightened around him.

“It’s a bastard of a thing,” Crawly said softly, close to his ear, the warmth of his breath sending a ripple down Aziraphale’s spine. “But they… you never see the stubborn little buggers give up, you know?” His hands started moving in those sweeping circles again, the whisper of his palms on Aziraphale’s skin strangely soothing. “They’ll pick themselves up, dust themselves off, get back on with things.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed in a whisper. There was no reason for his eyes to be wet or for his body to feel utterly weighed down with exhausted grief for people he didn’t even know. Not really. Names, yes. A little of their lives, yes. But could he ever know people like that? Mortals lives were so short, a blink and they were gone.

Crawly leaned back a little way, searching his face. “You too,” he said.

Aziraphale stared at him. There were few constants for him on earth. In Heaven, yes. The same faces, the same bland indifference, the same rules and guidelines and reproach. But on earth, only one thing remained the same. Steadfast and stubbornly there, turning up in unexpected places, asking unexpected questions and taking him away from the cold and the dark to somewhere warm and quiet and safe.

Why he leaned forward, he didn’t know, he only knew the instinct was hooking under his ribs, pulling him back into Crawly’s embrace. He lifted a hand, cupped Crawly’s cheek and – for the first time – kissed him without any other intent. A sharing of breath, of life, of warmth, of gratitude and of so many other things.

Crawly’s lips parted, his small, soft gasp a whisper against Aziraphale’s lips. “Now?” he asked, his eyes wide and golden by the sliver of sunlight.

Aziraphale’s words were broken in tired, grief-addled pieces, but his body still obeyed in some little ways. He slipped his hands downwards over Crawly’s narrow hips, under his buttocks, lifting him up just enough. It took more than the usual amount of effort, but Crawly noticed at once, reaching between their bodies, taking him in hand, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s.

A wash of shame rushed through Aziraphale and he pressed his eyes closed. What kind of… brute was he to seek some little bit of physical pleasure in the wake of everything he’d seen? He wasn’t an animal! He should– he ought to–

“Sh, sh, sh, sh,” Crawly soothed, rising over him on his knees, drawing him closer, his hand still moving between them. “It’s… this is a human thing to do…” He kissed the tears from Aziraphale’s cheek, along his cheekbone, across his lips and back up to his other ear. “It’s all right, angel. It’s – they grieve this way to. They remember what it’s like to live. This is… this is what people on earth do. It’s all right.”

“It feels… disrespectful,” he confessed in a shaking whisper.

“To survive?” Crawly’s hand was moving gently but firmly. “To find connections? To… to live?” He kissed Aziraphale’s ear. “No. Nothing wrong. Nothing at all. The ones in the mountains, the ones who survived it, they’ll hold everyone a little bit tighter now.” He tugged gently on Aziraphale’s earlobe. “You can hold me tighter if you need to, angel. I won’t break.”

It was ridiculous to weep. He didn’t even know what he was crying for, but the tears spilled hotly down Aziraphale’s cheeks and he took a ragged gulping breath as he pulled Crawly closer, the new folds of Crawly’s part brushing against the tip of him. The demon shifted his weight, sank down and with only a little press, Aziraphale’s part slid into him, as neatly as a key in a lock.

“I’ve got you, angel,” Crawly whispered, arms and legs wrapping around him like a shield against the world. “I’ve got you.”

There was little pleasure in it, but there was something far more urgent. Aziraphale was too drawn and spent to move, but Crawly somehow… he knew. He understood. And he moved for both of them, his hips rolling in serpentine ways, burying Aziraphale deeper and deeper within him, the only sound the hushed gasps of their breaths against one another’s lips.

Crawly’s fingers twisted into Aziraphale’s hair, pulling, sparking some deeper heat, and Aziraphale squeezed his narrow hips, urging him on. The tears dried up and their mouths skimmed against each other, lips parted and dry, their eyes fixed on one another.

The demon’s shuddering release came first, but he never stopped moving, digging his nails into Aziraphale’s back, raking them up, the pain sending new and unfamiliar spikes of fire. The pain was good, his body said. If you can feel, you are alive. And he tightened his hands on Crawly’s hips and – with all he had left – tipped them, bringing Crawly down on his back, and drove into him, harder and harder. Crawly gave a startled cry and the nails scratched again, deeper, then sank – sharp and deliciously painfully – into Aziraphale’s backside.

The release was instantaneous and Aziraphale sagged, catching his weight on his hands on either side of Crawly’s head.

The demon stared up at him, wide-eyed, breathing hard, legs still locked around Aziraphale’s. He looked shocked. No small wonder. It was… that was a dreadful way to behave, using the poor fellow like that, as if he was nothing more than a vessel to rut against.

The hands – still clutching his backside – eased their grip but didn’t let go.

Crawly’s eyes never left his face as he slowly, slowly, everso gently started to roll his hips again, as if there was more to draw out of Aziraphale’s body.

“No,” Aziraphale said raggedly. “Forgive me.” He pushed himself back, breaking that warm circle of arms and legs, running his shaking hands over his face. “Oh Lord…”

“Hey…” Knees brushed his and warm fingers wrapped around his wrists, pulling his hands away. Amused golden eyes met his. “I’m not sure what I’m meant to be forgiving here.”

Aziraphale stared at him, bewildered. “I… I _used_ you.”

Crawly raised his eyebrows and his face split in a grin. “Did you miss the part where I finished first?” he inquired. He pulled one of Aziraphale’s hands down and pushed it between his thighs, where he was still dripping with his own lubrication and Aziraphale’s spend. “Does that feel like I didn’t get something out of it?”

Aziraphale flushed. “I– well–” He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. With you. I shouldn’t be. You shouldn’t be either.”

Crawly tilted his head, gazing at him. “Yeah. Bit of a theme with us, isn’t it?” He wriggled closer, his knee slipping between Aziraphale’s, and he gently nudged his brow to the angel’s. “You were in a bit of a state, angel. Didn’t need to be. Just wanted to help. Isn’t a crime, is it?”

Aziraphale shook his head. Of course not. What kind of world would it be if kindness and compassion – even coming from a demon – were an offence? He reached out and traced the imprints of his fingers on Crawly’s hip. “I was a little… overzealous, I think.”

The demon flashed that wicked grin at him and leaned closer, his hair – still damp – sliding over his narrow shoulders. “Can’t say I minded,” he confided in a molten whisper against Aziraphale’s ear.

Something in his tone, in the purr and the cadence and the satisfaction, sent a thrum of pleasure through Aziraphale, unexpected after so many hours of aching numbness. And he became very, very acutely aware of the warmth of Crawly’s thighs on either side of his.

Without a thought or hesitation, he curled both hands over Crawly’s hips again, pulling him closer and raising his ensnared thigh just enough. The demon gave a startled squeak as his lust-slicked parts slid hotly against Aziraphale’s thigh, his long-nailed hands grabbing at Aziraphale’s wrists.

“No?” Aziraphale guessed, though that throbbing heat was still flush against his skin.

Crawly’s lips nipped his ear. “Again.”

Aziraphale caught his hips, guiding him into a rhythm, compensation for his earlier, rough-handed treatment. It only took a few moments before Crawly squirmed free of his grip and was rocking greedily against his thigh.

“Oh,” he panted out, pawing at Aziraphale’s shoulders, nails hooking into the skin in that very… interesting way. Aziraphale’s own breath was coming harder again, watching the flush spreading across Crawly’s face and shoulders. It was strange how such basic impulses could be fanned to a flame without hands or genitalia being involved.

The angel reached out, sinking his fingers into Crawly’s hair, like damp silk against his skin. Beads of sweat were dotting the demon’s face, his brow and his upper lip, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but lean in and lick at the corner of his lips. Crawly moaned, turning his head and his mouth snared Aziraphale’s as his fingers clawed their way up and into Aziraphale’s hair again.

The demon’s mouth was so hot and hungry, his tongue licking demandingly at Aziraphale’s and he sighed just as greedily when Aziraphale tore his lips away. He moved, snake-fast, and as sharp as the sting of his nails had been, the sensation of teeth in his throat made Aziraphale cry out, startled by both the pain and the sudden surge of heat in his loins again. He dragged Crawly closer still, his returning arousal lifting his part against Crawly’s rhythmically rubbing thigh. It… it should not have been so… so interesting, so _good_, and yet…

“Oh Hell…” Crawly growled through his teeth as they clung to each other, scratching and pulling and pushing and bruising, grinding against one another’s limbs until there were no words and only panting and the urgent push-pull of hands, lips and parts.

They were both slick with sweat and spend when Aziraphale spilled his last.

Crawly’s cheek was resting on the angel’s shoulder and Aziraphale, breathing hot and heavy, stroked his shaking hand over and over through Crawly’s tangled hair. Should he feel ashamed, he wondered, turning to such primitive means for comfort? Was it… was there anything really wrong with taking comfort with another.

Crawly nuzzled at his shoulder. “You’re doing it again,” he murmured, his voice thickened and sleepy.

“Pardon?” Aziraphale froze, hand stilling.

“Thinking bad thoughts,” Crawly replied. With visible effort, he rolled his head to squint up at Aziraphale’s face. “S’okay. S’human. S’what we’re meant to know.”

Aziraphale gazed at him, bringing his hand around to touch Crawly’s bruised and swollen lips. The latter kisses had been messy and clumsy. Teeth had played a part. “I’ve made such a mess of you.”

The demon gave him a drowsy grin. “Should take a look at your back, angel. Don’t think you got off lightly.”

“My…” Aziraphale groped back, wincing in surprise when he encountered raised welts. “Oh!”

Teeth nipped lightly at his throat. “M’a bit of an animal,” Crawly murmured with a snigger. He pushed himself upright, then wriggled back, sliding down Aziraphale’s thigh with a satisfied groan to land on his heels.

Aziraphale glanced down, flushing anew at the sheen of moisture on his thigh and the corresponding spatter on Crawly’s. “It really is such messy business, isn’t it?”

“Crosses we have to bear,” Crawly said with a grin that should have warned him a second before the demon dipped his head down and ran his tongue From Aziraphale’s knee to the crease of his hip.

“Crawly!”

Wide golden eyes rose to him innocently, his tongue still out. “Hm?”

“You– that really isn’t necessary!” And lord knows it was probably unhelpful, since it inevitably lead to further stimulation and… well, to cut it off at the source, he hastily made another effort, taking away any possible temptation.

Crawly made a face at him. “Spoiling my fun,” he said and gave the now smooth skin a flicker of a lick, which should definitely _not_ have triggered anything.

And yet…

“Oh!”

“Oh?” Crawly looked up at once, a predator sighting fresh prey.

“No!” Aziraphale closed both hands over the space between his thighs. He had already spent far more time here than he ought to and letting himself get even more distracted was only worse. “No!”

Crawly made a sound that could only be described as a pout. “Well, that’s no fun, is it?” he said, but he sat up at once, though not before dropping a last kiss on Aziraphale’s thigh. He tilted his head, hair slipping over his shoulders again, and gave Aziraphale a small, hopeful smile. “Maybe you can work out how it works for next time?”

“How it–?” It shouldn’t have worked at all! It was– angels were _genderless_. There wasn’t meant to be anything _to_ work there. Which was a new set of questions he really wished he didn’t have settling into the forefront of his brain.

Never mind the fact that he should have protested and said no more. What was the point of denying something so inevitable? He was a magnet and Crawly the pull of north, something inexplicable and without reason but there all the same.

Lord, it was so much more complicated than he had anticipated. And yet somehow, also so simple.

He got to his feet and padded across the floor to retrieve his robe.

“I should get back,” he said quietly, lifting it up and pulling it back over his head. It slithered down his body. Removing temptation on both their parts, he supposed, though he still jumped when a thin hand touched his shoulder.

Crawly reached for the neckline of the robe, tying the string in a neat knot. “This flood mess is going to take a while, isn’t it?” Aziraphale nodded, watching his sharp-nailed hands move. “If it– if there’s a time it gets too much, you know you can give me a shout.”

The angel looked up, startled, into those serpentine eyes. “Crawly…”

The demon patted his chest. “Just saying.” He leaned in and pressed a gentle, surprisingly chaste kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. “Don’t just sit on your own with it, yeah?”

Why, Aziraphale wondered, staring at him. Why was a demon so damned kind?

“I won’t,” he agreed, lifting his hand to gently tuck Crawly’s hair back behind his ear. “Stay out of trouble.” He paused, frowning. “Or should that be stay in trouble?”

Crawly ducked his head with a grin. “Bit of both?” He stepped away and pulled the door open, the afternoon sunlight spilling in from a verdant garden. It was beautiful and warm, a last bit of light before returning to the dark wet void. “You know my name, angel.”

Aziraphale took one last look at him. “I do,” he agreed, then stepped back from light into cold, wet darkness.


	5. Lesson 5 - 2765BC

Humans, Aziraphale had learned, had a remarkable capacity for recovery.

Across the world, those who avoided the floods continued to thrive, while those who had – somehow, inexplicably and in no way that any angel could possibly explain – survived the rising waters had rebuilt everything from the ground up.

They were incredibly hardy creatures, humans.

Only a couple of centuries of work and now, cities dotted the sprawling landscape once again. It took one’s breath away, when they ought to have despaired and lamented. Instead, they picked up what they had and jolly well got on with everything they needed to do, making bricks, hewing stones and _building_.

Kish was one such city and it was a fascinating place. New crafts had emerged, new styles of sculpture and decoration. The pottery works were evolving into something new and exquisite and Aziraphale often found himself simply sitting in the workshops and watching, mesmerised, as a shapeless lump of clay became something beautiful.

With some blessings to distribute – he tried not to think of the reasons why there were fewer to spread around now – he had taken a small room in one of the inns on the east side of the city. They were used to traders and travellers and no one noticed a solitary man among the thousands living in the city.

He had been there for three days when a prickle ran up the back of his neck, a ripple of unease. Someone was watching him.

It was disconcerting to say the least and he scanned the faces of the people around him as far as he could see. No one appeared to be paying him any attention and, as far as he could tell, there were no celestial or diabolic presences in his near vicinity. That said, with the sheer volume of living mortals around him, it was rather like listening through static.

He tried to put it to the back of his mind, though he couldn’t help keeping one eye very much open as he wove through the main square.

It wasn’t until he returned to his small room that night that he learned he was right.

Someone had been watching him.

Someone had left a gift on his bed, wrapped in a red cloth and tied with a length of leather that he recognised, his heart giving a thump. He had misplaced a length of cord from his collar, all those years ago, when he left the warmth of a demon’s embrace to return to the night-black waves of the flood.

Now, there it was, wrapped around…

He sat cautiously on the bed, setting the lamp down on the floor and lifting the bundle into his lap. It around the size of his forearm and as soon as he pressed his hands to the cloth, the fabric gave away the mystery of its contents. Colour flamed in Aziraphale’s cheeks, though it didn’t stop him from loosening the belt and spreading the scarlet folds open.

A small scrap of paper fluttered free and he groped down for it, unable to tear his eyes away from the object in his lap. The last time he had encountered it, he had buried it deep in Crawly’s shivering body. The rippled surface of the jade glistened in the lamplight.

With nervous fingers, he turned over the scrap of paper.

_Was passing through. Saw you. Thought I’d leave you something to keep you company. Back in a few days, if you’re still around. _

The sigil might have been the tattoo beside the demon’s ear.

He swallowed hard, letting his fingers ghost lightly along the cool stone. Crawly had offered him the opportunity to take his pleasure with it before but they had ended up so distracted that neither of them had remembered who was meant to indulge.

Not until now.

No. He folded the fabric back up quickly, his ears burning. No, oh that would be… too much. It was one thing to learn and understand and _feel_ what humans felt. But to take something that he had… that they had… that had been…

As if it made any difference, he shoved it under the end of his straw mattress and flung himself down on his back. After a moment, he rolled to his side to blow out the lamp, then resumed staring ferociously at the ceiling and clasping his hands tightly together at his midriff to keep them from straying.

There was no reason to indulge in such things!

For Heaven’s sake, it was a bit of rock! A beautifully-carved bit of rock! That was all. It wasn’t as if it would have any of Crawly’s warmth or be anything more than a… a… a piece of tawdry decoration that the humans had come up with.

And yet, he couldn’t help remembering the urgent, breathless sounds the demon had made as it had slipped into his body.

Aziraphale groaned, rolling onto his belly and pressing his face into the mattress.

The demon was too damned good at temptation, even if he never intended it.

No. No. He would rest through the nightly curfew, ignore the distraction hidden under the edge of the mattress, and _perhaps_, if he was still around when Crawly returned to the city, he would return it with the due amount of gratitude for such a… generous thought. If he had to leave earlier, a note would have to do.

It was astonishing how distracting it was, simply knowing it was there.

Aziraphale was not the sort to sleep – it was possible, but he saw no reason to try it – which meant he was safe from any kind of interesting or encouraging dreams. Unfortunately, he also quite a vivid memory for sights, sounds, and scents of things he particularly enjoyed and a number of them featured that very object.

He drummed his heels, paced the room, and very much did not pay attention to it. It was almost a temptation to go and get the miracles done early so he could leave, but some of them had a very specific deadline and all he could do was pace and clench his traitorous hands into fists by his sides.

When the cock crowed, he was out of the door before the sound had even faded.

Better to keep busy and be distracted.

The streets were already bustling, traders on the move, setting up their stalls for the business of the day. The scent of fresh bread wafted out of the bakery and men and women hurried by, baskets heavy with fruit balanced on their heads and shoulders.

There were ample diversions to be had and Aziraphale swamped himself in them, the scents, sights and wonders of the reborn world.

Unfortunately, the trouble with miracles is that sometimes they had to be provided in the seedier parts of the city and more than one of the young night ladies, refreshing themselves shamelessly by the wells hooted and called out to him.

Aziraphale ignored them until one sidled up to him.

“It’s still early, friend,” she purred, her scanty dress split down the front, revealing far more of her than he had any desire to see. “If you like them tight, I’m your girl.”

He took three steps, then paused, frowning. “Tight?” He glanced back at her. “_What_ is tight?”

She leered suggestively and parted the split of her skirt, showing a thatch of dark curls. “What do you think, friend? Some…” – she jerked her head dismissively to the other girls by the well – “are loose as silk purses, but not this one.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale stared at her, then frowned. “Oh. I see.” He nodded politely. “Thank you. Have a good day.”

As he walked away, she cursed cheerfully at his back. “I hope your prick falls off!”

Absently, lost in thought, he called back, “Oh, I don’t have one.”

Immediately, there was a chorus of laughs and cackles from the other girls and the woman who had approached him groaned and grumbled.

Her words were still rattling around in Aziraphale’s head as he walked back to the inn much later that day. Did… tightness make such a difference? He hadn’t really paid all that much attention to the specifics of the elasticity of certain parts when he used them. They would, he imagined, feel rather pleasant around an Adam’s part if they were especially tight, but how did that factor in for the people with an Eve’s part? Did that increase stimulation for them as well?

He pushed open the door of his room and immediately noticed the flash of red fabric poking out from beneath the mattress.

Aziraphale shut and locked the door behind him and closed his eyes with a sigh. If he didn’t get an answer to the question, then he knew it would sit there and niggle at him and gently drive him mad. And it was _all_ Crawly’s fault! If he hadn’t brought to mind such… thoughts again, then Aziraphale would never have even considered it.

He sat on the edge of the bed and withdrew the small bundle from beneath the mattress. Was it… selfish to indulge, he wondered. When it was purely a theoretical experiment, did it really count as indulgence, even if the end result _was_ satisfying? A pleasant side-effect, certainly, but not the focus of the experiment.

“You,” he chided himself with a sigh, “are a terrible liar.”

He opened the folds of the cloth and, by the warm daylight, the jade gleamed. Cautiously, he ran his fingers along the patterns carved into the stone. Ripples in an imitation of waves dipped and swirled against his fingertips, though the stone was still cold against his skin.

Well, that would have to change before it went _anywhere_.

Aziraphale wet his lower lip, then wrapped both hands around the length of stone. At once, heat seemed to sap from his skin into it, the chill dispersing and – everso lightly – he started to drag it up and down against his palm.

The texture was… fascinating against his skin, firm enough for his skin to stir beneath the push and pull of it. Would it be the same peculiar thrill elsewhere? He hesitated, then shook back his sleeve, dragging the ridged edges against the fine skin drawn pale and smooth over blue veins. Like the crackle of lightning in the air during a storm, energy prickled through him, gooseflesh raising the hairs on his forearms and sending shivers down his spine.

Yes. Yes, was the answer.

He ought to have been mortified by the heat fanning through him, by the speed at which he shifted his lower form. He ought to have paused and considered the things appropriate to an angel, but instead he grasped handfuls of his robes and pulled them higher, up, over his knees, baring his plump thighs and spreading them shamelessly.

Though warmed by his hand, the first touch of stone against his thigh still made him catch his breath, the chill of it surprisingly delicious. His teeth worried his lower lip as he rolled the length of it against his inner thigh, dragging up, catching, hitching on his skin so gently.

His Eve’s parts were growing moist with anticipation.

Not for the first time, he wondered if it was his own mind that made it so or if the body simply… understood its purpose.

Little by little, he inched Crawly’s gift closer and the first brush against those most sensitive of places drew a shudder from him. The texture, it seemed, was not purely decorative. Closing his eyes, he sank back onto the bed and drew his legs up, bracing his feet on the mattress below him, and with slow, steady strokes, drag-drag-dragged the rippled surface against increasingly warm and throbbing flesh.

It was the most exquisite kind of torture, the teasing lightness of it, hints of cold and hardness, though nowhere near enough to bring things to a premature end. Better, he insisted to himself, to be as warm and slick and ready to receive it, especially since there was no oil to be had.

No matter that he rolled it over and over that lovely little knot of nerves, setting his body thrumming. Purely incidental. Likewise that sometimes it crept close to slipping within him only to skim over, his hips lifting of their own accord, his eyes pressing shut at the swells and eddies of pleasure pulsing out through him.

In the stillness of the room, his breathing echoed back around him, steadiness giving way to uneven, shaking breaths and Lord, his hips were moving of their own volitions, all but grinding him against the textured surface of the object.

He tilted his hand, the object, and a low moan slid between his lips as it sank into him as smoothly as Crawly ever had himself. His fingers trembled around the base as he push-pulled it once, twice, three times. It was… oh, yes… quite… quite lovely…

Somewhere in his scattered thoughts, he remembered the lesson he was meant to be learning and gathered what little focus he had left, drawing his body tight about the object. This time, when he withdrew it, oh sweet God in Heaven…

Every ripple, every bump and groove, dragged in the most intensely wonderful of sensations.

Again, he thought dizzily, twisting his hand as he moved it, the heel of his palm press-rubbing at the peak while his fingers push-pulled and his body stirred and moved and helpless, feeble, wanting sounds curled from his throat. He crushed his other hand to his mouth to stifle them, his heels pushing against the mattress and his pace quickening, inching, teasing, pressing himself closer and closer to–

The pounding at the door almost made him leap from his skin and Aziraphale yelped, scrambling to cover himself, pulling his robes back down over his knees and – oh, what a terrible and delightful mistake – sitting upright.

“Wh-who’s there?”

The door – hadn’t he locked that? – swung inwards and Crawly poked his head in with a grin. “Oh good! You’re still here!”

Heat flooded Aziraphale’s face and he opened and shut his mouth several times, trying to keep his hips from moving, trying to ignore the deeper press of the object inside and against him, trying to remember exactly how to make words.

“Ah. Yes.” Lord, his lips were dry and he had to tangle his hands together to keep them from shaking. He managed a brittle smile. “Hello.” And he remembered all at once the note the date and… “I thought you weren’t due back for a few days.”

The demon swung into the room, pushing the door shut behind him. “Easier job than expected,” he said, sprawling down onto the stool by the wall. “Finished up last night and thought I’d pop back and surprise you.”

“Er… well done. You… you did…” Aziraphale swallowed hard.

It was damned hard to stop his hips from moving.

One would have thought the mood would have been ruined by the unexpected intrusion, but his body seemed quite bent on finishing what it had begun. He squeezed his hands more tightly together and smiled as much as he could.

“Can… can I help you, then?”

Crawly stretched out his legs and pushed his fingers through his hair. “Fine way to greet someone, that,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Come in to say hello and you’re acting like I’m just some random human.”

“Oh… er… yes…” Aziraphale nodded, squeezing his thighs together as much as he could. “I was… er… you see… I was about to… go out.”

The demon raised his eyebrows and his gaze ran over Aziraphale from head to toe. How mortifyingly obvious was he, the angel wondered, hair dishevelled, robes rumpled, sweating and flushed and squirming as if he couldn’t sit still.

He must have seemed like an open book.

“Angel…” Crawly said, staring at him. “I left you something. Where _is_ it?”

Lord, was it possible to combust from embarrassment?

“I–” He couldn’t meet the demon’s eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You _do_…” Crawly breathed. “Angel, are you… using it just now?”

Aziraphale’s fingers ached in their tangled knot. “Ah…” He cleared his throat. “Well…”

What he didn’t expect was the rapt look on the demon’s face. “Can I see?”

“_What_?!?”

Crawly leaned forward on the stool, eyes wide and unblinking. “You always– you know what you’re doing. I was–” His cheeks spotted pink. “I kind of hoped you’d let me see.”

That sent a more heated spark straight to the juncture of Aziraphale’s thighs, the thought of Crawly _watching_ him. Another lesson. That’s what they could call it, couldn’t they?

“You… you would _want_ to watch?”

The demon nodded. “I like seeing how you can make it good,” he said, his voice almost a purr. “I like seeing you enjoy it.”

Aziraphale didn’t notice that he’d even unfolded his hands, not until he bunched them in his robes. It was another lesson, he told himself. Nothing to do with being devoured by the hungry and doting eyes of a demon. Nothing to do with someone else finding pleasure in his happiness.

“St-stay there,” he managed through a throat near closed, then dragged his robes up over his knees and slid to the very edge of the bed. The room was small enough that their legs were damn near brushing against one another, bare skin to coarse cloth.

Crawly made a small, urgent sound. “You’re so _wet_, angel,” he breathed. “Look at you. You’re dripping.” 

He really was, the base of Crawly’s little gift slippery against his fingers as he grasped at it. He resumed the steady, slow push-pull, unable to tear his eyes from Crawly’s face. The flush that had begun on the demon’s cheeks spread, his breathing coming as unsteadily as Aziraphale’s.

“Could do it faster,” he suggested, kneading at his threadbare black robes.

Aziraphale shook his head. “One must… savour it,” he said, though his voice sounded far deeper than usual, bubbling up from some hungry place in his chest. The fire in those gold eyes, the way they watched his hand, was kindling a far more intense heat in him and oh, that was something to prolong and devour like the finest of delicacies.

“Ngh,” Crawly replied.

Aziraphale glanced down at a rustle of fabric. Crawly’s robes were rumpled, a peak close to his groin, a very familiar shape jutting through the cloth. His heart quivered in surprise. Not even touching the demon and yet affecting him so.

“Adam’s?” he managed.

“Ngh.” Crawly pressed a hand to it. “C’n I?”

It was something far more than a lesson, this.

“Only,” Aziraphale said, swallowing thick and hard, “if you match my pace.”

Crawly had his hand under his robe in an instant, hauling it up with the other hand, and groaning in relief when he wrapped his fingers around his part, but his relief was short-lived, accompanied by a wince.

Aziraphale – fingers strong and dripping – knew what he lacked. His heart thundered as he drew the object from his body, replacing it briefly with greedy, thrusting fingers. When they were glistening with moisture, he leaned across the space between them, nudged Crawly’s hand aside and replaced it with his own firm grip.

Crawly reared back so hard, the back of his head knocked against the wall, his sandalled feet slithering on the floor. “NGK!”

And all at once, both Aziraphale’s hands were occupied. Stroke for stroke, one hand tending himself, the other tending the demon. Golden eyes stared at him, bony fingers pawing urgently at rucked up robes. He quivered all over, flushed and feet skittering, even as Aziraphale’s body gave in to gravity and he sank to his knees on the floor.

Crawly squirmed and wriggled against his hand, but Aziraphale had been a soldier once. He could be as relentless as he needed to be and this… this was a lesson.

“You see,” he breathed, maintaining that slow, steady pace that felt as if it matched the pulse of eternity, though his legs were trembling and he was teetering so very closely to oblivion. “You… you must learn to… take your time…”

“Angel…” Crawly keened. “Satan’s sake! Please!”

Unable to hold himself up, he sank on his knees, withdrawing his hand. “My pace,” he reminded the demon hoarsely, giving in to the deep, carnal impulse to rock his hips, to meet the press of his hand, his voice trailing into stuttering gasps as he brought his empty hand – shining with the first drops of Crawly’s spend – to join the first, fingertips fluttering while the others pushed.

“Oh Hell…” Crawly gasped out. “Angel…”

Aziraphale watched his skinny hand flying, matching stroke for stroke, as urgent and tremulous as Aziraphale’s touches were. An echo chamber, he thought with rapturous delight, pleasure calling and responding with scarcely any touching at all. How… how…

“Lord…” he gasped, groping out with one hand for the bedframe, the throb rising to a crescendo and the pulse through every part of his body dropping him like a rock. Bed at his back, other hand still fluttering and moving, the world swam before his eyes and he sagged back, breathless.

And somewhere in the near distance, Crawly’s rapid breathing and the clatter of stool falling over and hands under his thighs, lifting him up, onto the bed and a hot, licking mouth hurtled him back into a dizzyingly bright void.

The licks had gentled when his world came back into focus, tender laps along the sopping insides of his thighs, the ticklish whisper of curls ghosting along his bare skin.

“Crawly…” It out to have been reproach and yet…

Golden eyes looked up at him, the demon on his knees between Aziraphale’s useless and splayed limbs, his lips and cheeks shining and wet. And, with one gentle hand, he withdrew that delightful jade tool free, making Aziraphale shudder all over again.

“Can I?” he asked hoarsely.

“Ng?” Aziraphale managed and was quite frankly impressed he was able to do so.

Crawly nodded downward and Aziraphale’s heart leapt to his mouth. Adam’s part was still undone, hard and red and…

Stroke for stroke, he remembered dazedly. He waited for permission.

Mutely, Aziraphale caught him by the hair and pulled him up on his knees, closer and their mouths met and opened to one another. And as Crawly dipped his tongue between Aziraphale’s lips, one achingly hot part met another and both of them groaned into each other’s mouths.

The sound severed the stillness and Crawly moved, sharp and sudden as a snake, catching Aziraphale’s hips and pulling him closer.

One stroke, two and three and a final one had him shuddering with the force of his release. His breath washed hotly against Aziraphale’s throat and he shuddered, gripping the angel’s hips bruisingly, both of them pressed so close together, not even daylight could squeeze between them.

Aziraphale’s chest rose and fell, his fingers sunk into the demon’s hair, body delightfully and utterly overindulged.

It _ached_ in the best possible way and the intimate rub of Crawly within him was a gentle reminder of why he _did_ enjoy this particular part so much. Oh, it could last and last. Was there a limit? He didn’t know, but even the light, comfortable weight of Crawly’s flesh to his could kindle fresh sparks.

Crawly licked Aziraphale’s throat with flickering darts of his tongue.

“Thought you might like it.” He sounded happy. Pleased.

“Mm.” Thick curls were heavy between Aziraphale’s fingers.

The demon laughed, lifting his head to look down at Aziraphale. He looked quite lovely, all haloed by the sunlight, glowing like fire. “You _really_ enjoyed yourself, didn’t you, angel?”

Hush, he should have said. Stop your nonsense, dear boy. Anything, really.

Who knew that one could sate one’s body so much so that making words come out was… quite, quite impossible?

Crawly grinned down at him. “Time for a little lie down?”

Aziraphale – helpfully – listed sideways and Crawly took care of the practicalities like… lifting his useless limp legs onto the bed, then squirming back between them and making himself utterly at home there.

“I’ll leave it,” the demon whispered, leaning down to touch his lips to Aziraphale. “For you.”

Aziraphale gazed up at him with heavy eyes. “Mm?”

Crawly kissed the corner of his mouth. “Close your eyes, angel.” There was such tenderness in his voice Aziraphale could not help but obey. His fingers curled in a blanket of flaming red and, for the first time in his life, Aziraphale drifted to sleep.


	6. Lesson 6 - 2149BC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawly had _legs_.  
Well, obviously, he had legs. Aziraphale had seen them on more than one occasion – and had been wrapped up in them before, which was an entirely different matter. Only normally, they were covered when the rest of him was covered or bare when the rest of him was bare.  
New fashion had a _lot_ to answer for.

Crawly had _legs._

Well, obviously, he had legs. Aziraphale had seen them on more than one occasion – and had been wrapped up in them before, which was an entirely different matter. Only normally, they were covered when the rest of him was covered or bare when the rest of him was bare.

New fashion had a _lot_ to answer for.

Shorter hemlines for a start.

The intricately wound straps of leather holding his sandals in place didn’t help either.

Aziraphale swallowed once or twice.

For Heaven’s sake, he’d seen every inch of the demon in close proximity and yet… and yet there was something inherently and absurdly erotic about the way his calf curved into his ankle, accentuated by the criss-cross of leather pressing patterns into his skin.

Some strange impulse flared through the angel, the peculiar desire to _bite_ that curve, where muscle and sinew drew taut beneath sleek sun-warmed skin.

Heat flared up the back of his neck when the demon called his name and waved in greeting.

“All right?” Crawly said as he sauntered closer. “Thought I felt you nearby.” The shorter cut of the red-embroidered black tunic flared around his thighs, emphasising a hereto unnoticed movement of his body. His hips, Aziraphale realised, the blush deepening. He could see the sway of Crowley’s hips. Crawly’s eyebrows rose. “You okay? You’re looking a bit overheated.”

When he had first sensed the demon’s presence in the city, Aziraphale’s intention had been to say hello and be on his way. He had miracles to do and blessings to dole out. He had no– he had _very_ _little_ time to do anything more than pass by in greeting.

And then, he saw the demon for the first time in _centuries_, all sleek bare limbs instead of heavy, draping robes, his fiery hair a mess of much shorter curls bouncing on his shoulders, the sweep of arm from elbow to wrist a poem, the lean lines of his thighs a pair of twin columns and those… oh Lord, this exquisite ankles of his.

Crawly searched his face, then grinned. “Oh, I see how it is.” He reached out and caught Aziraphale’s unresisting wrist. “This way, angel.”

“I don’t have _time_,” Aziraphale insisted as a token protest. “I’m meant to be leaving the city before the next bells.”

Golden eyes slanted back at him. “We’ll make it quick, then.” He turned sharply into a narrow alleyway between two buildings. A bakery on one side, Aziraphale realised, the scent of fresh bread and pastries heavy on the air. Delicious. Just like those ankles.

He yanked his arm back. “Stop.”

Crawly hesitated. “I thought–”

Talking was wasting time and words took up space of better things. He silenced the demon with a kiss, pressing him back against the smooth pale walls. Crawly yelped in surprise and opened his mouth to… to do something, but whatever it was, it was forgotten as Aziraphale slipped his tongue between the demon’s parted lips.

Crawly gave a happy groan, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, sinking his fingers into his hair.

Aziraphale slid his hands down over Crawly’s sides, the thinner linen fabric clinging to Crawly’s sleek skin beneath. He traced the shape of ribs down to his waist, then squeezed his hips, rubbing his thumbs down the sharp ridges of bone even as he felt the heat coursing through his body.

“Here?” Crawly panted against his lips.

“Mm.” Aziraphale kissed him again, sliding one hand further down, bunching it in the short, light skirt of Crawly’s tunic, once, two twists of cloth and his hand skimmed bare thigh. He splayed his fingers, kneading at it as his mouth moved off Crawly’s and down his cheek, his jaw, his long, bare throat. The impulse to _bite_ returned, so he did, then sucked hard on the mark until Crawly howled, his thigh leaping up under Aziraphale’s palm, a serpentine leg coiling around his.

The ruddy bruise on Crawly’s neck was…

Angels and demons wore marks, specific marks. Crawly still had a serpent coiled down his cheek just as the angels wore the golden regalia of Heaven shimmering across their faces. A stamp, a seal, a declaration of fealty. Marks were granted by those above.

It ought to have mortified him, being so presumptuous and marking another creature as if he had the right to do so, but something hungry and territorial flared in Aziraphale’s middle staring at the mark he had laid on Crawly’s skin.

“Don’t move,” he warned, sliding his hand along Crawly’s thigh and sinking down onto his knees.

Crawly stared down at him. “What are you–?”

Another yowl escaped him as Aziraphale lifted that long, lean thigh over his shoulder and _bit_ there as well. Fingers were in his hair, pulling and he licked the mark as if to seal it there.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…” Crawly moaned as Aziraphale left a thread of lovely rosettes, inching higher and higher, Crawly’s thin tunic doing very little to hide the swell of a part beneath. Adam’s, Aziraphale noticed, pleased. He _liked_ putting things into his mouth and Crawly certainly didn’t seem to object when he pushed aside the linen and put his mouth around him.

The angel closed his eyes to better enjoy the flavour him, the salt and sulphur tang. With the sharp sporadic tugs on his hair and the scent of the bakery winding around them and the constant litany of urgent wanton sounds from the demon, oh it was quite, quite lovely.

He licked and lapped, sucking and swallowing and every so often – simply for the sounds it drew from the demon – he turned his head and sucked stinging marks into Crawly’s lovely, lovely skin.

“A-angel,” Crawly moaned, curling his fingers more tightly into Aziraphale’s hair. His hips shuddering in a staccato rhythm, his whole body propped entirely up by the angel and the wall behind him. He tried to find a way to move, but oh, it was delightful to see him squirm and shudder, utterly dependent on Aziraphale’s indulgence. “C’mon, angel… please…”

Aziraphale tilted his head back to look up at Crawly. The alleyway was cast in shade, but the demon shone like the sun, his head pressed back to the wall, his cheeks as flush and red as his hair, his lips trembling and creases about his tightly-pressed eyes. It could have looked like pain, the way his throat bobbed and his shoulders tensed, but when his eyes flickered open, liquid gold and fire, there was only warmth and desire there.

The heat of his gaze made Aziraphale’s heart stutter.

“Watch me?” he asked, praying that Crawly took as much pleasure from being bitten as he did from the biting. Or the tasting. Or any of it – all of it.

Those golden eyes, bright as a sunrise, fixed on his face. “Go on then,” Crawly breathed.

With a small, pleased sound, Aziraphale lowered his head, indulging the urge to taste every last inch. He licked and tongued, bobbing his head and curling his mouth in the ways that made Crawly’s fingers tighten in his hair. A push of his hand shoved that skirt up further and he bit – stingingly – at the skin beside that jagged hip bone, kissing it over and over, when Crawly moan and jerked against him.

Salt was sharp on his tongue when he claimed Crawly’s part again, swallowing and licking, even as he kneaded at Crawly’s thigh. His nose nuzzled down the fine trail of red from navel to groin and when he swallowed, he swallowed deep, and a demon spilled hotly into his mouth, crying out his name raggedly to the sky.

Aziraphale liked to taste. He liked to indulge. He licked and sucked gently, swallowing and drinking in all that Crawly had given, even until the demon weakly pulled at his hair.

“Angel…”

Lapping at the corners of his mouth, Aziraphale raised his head. His lips felt deliciously swollen and a pleasant shiver ran through him when Crawly pulled down one of his hands and ran his shaking thumb along Aziraphale’s lower lip.

“Up?”

Well, how could he refuse a request like that?

Aziraphale rose in a surge, crushing his mouth to Crawly’s, the demon’s thigh pinned up between their bodies. Crawly greedily licked at his mouth, as if to taste him, then pushed his hips closer, rubbing at the front of Aziraphale’s robes. Adam’s part had melted away into Eve’s part, just as hot and ready and receptive.

Another shiver ran through Aziraphale’s body. When he had manifested his own Adam’s part, he wasn’t quite sure, but the friction was doing very nice things and Crawly’s eyes were wide and demanding and his body was squirming and inviting and… well… is he was being so… hospitable.

With his free hand, the angel pulled his heavy robes up, rubbing flesh against bare, yielding flesh.

“S’good,” Crawly breathed, rolling his hips against him. “S’it good?”

Aziraphale stared at him, at his face and his lips and his golden wanting eyes. Trying to give, was he? Oh, no. Not today. Today he would receive in abundance. He caught Crawly’s other leg and _lifted_, pressing him up and back against the wall, pinning him in place.

Crawly yelped, clutching at him. “Fuck, angel!”

“I’ve got you,” Aziraphale murmured, kissing the knobbly knee so close to his cheek. “I’ve…” He drew a breath and released as he sank into the warm, welcoming part of Crawly’s body, plunging deeper until the press of his hips was all that held the demon in place. “Ah…”

And everso slowly, as the plates of the world and the snows of the avalanche, he moved. Each roll of his hips, every thrust pushed the demon a little further up the wall. Crawly’s leg locked around his hips, but all control was out of his hands.

The demon swallowed frantically, throwing his head back and clutching at Aziraphale’s hair. “Ngh!”

“Patience,” Aziraphale breathed and lowered his mouth to that exposed and unmarked length of the demon’s throat, punctuating each thrust with a bite, a lick or a lovely bruising suck.

Crawly’s sounds trailed off into muffled whines and yelps, his fingers digging into the meat of Aziraphale’s shoulders, his whole body shuddering over and over. A slip of a hand between them ensured he didn’t have a chance to recover his words as Aziraphale – tasting every little morsel – covered him in bites and bruises and brought him to his quaking peak over and over.

“Nyyyy…” Crawly batted at him. “Nyyyy!!”

Aziraphale lifted his head. “Mm?”

The demon stared – nearly black-eyed with lust – at him, then gestured wildly upwards.

Bells, Aziraphale noticed distantly, then more sharply. Bells!

“Oh!” Too much indulgence! Too much giving in to such… primitive impulses! He quickened his pace, unsurprised when Crawly clung onto him, so very, very close and Lord, he ought to be on his way and he needed to–

An excruciatingly wonderful sting burned his throat and his hips jerked hard against Crawly’s as his body spent itself.

Crawly giggled weakly against his throat and licked the place he had bitten.

Aziraphale muffled his own breathless laugh in Crawly’s throat and gently released his leg, letting him regain his footing. His own legs shook with effort as he sank down to his knees again, Crawly’s other knee still hooked over his shoulder He kissed the exposed skin, then drew back, kissing that damned tempting calf, following the curve of it to his ankle, and – everso briefly – allowed himself to lick the delicate skin peeping between strips of leather.

Above him, Crawly leaned limply against the wall.

There were probably words they ought to say, apologies he ought to make for pressing so demandingly, for marking without permission or any authority, but kneeling there, Aziraphale’s words wouldn’t come. He set Crawly’s foot down and got to his feet, putting his robes back in order.

The demon tries to straighten up, but instead, his wobbling legs gave way and he sank to sit in a heap at the bottom of the wall. He peered down at his splayed legs, touching the string of red marks that disappeared up beneath his skirt.

Was he angry? Offended? Shocked? Lord, Aziraphale thought in a panic, he really ought to have asked first.

The bells rang again and Aziraphale glanced up. He really needed to go.

“Crawly…” he began.

The demon gave him a bemused blink. He hadn’t even noticed that his black tunic was now smudged and smeared white, flour residue clinging to his hair and skin.

He looked… sweet. Utterly dishevelled and harmless and sweet. Those weren’t attributes anyone ought to ascribe to a demon, especially not a demon who had clearly been tempting him with those sandals and those limbs and… and… and everything he had chosen to give in to.

A demon who he had marked, as if he had the right.

Aziraphale smiled uncertainly and raised a hand in farewell, before turning and hurrying away, shame creeping close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lesson? That Aziraphale likes ankles :D


	7. Lesson 7- 1391BC

The dawn-tinted water rippled as Aziraphale waded back to the shoreline, pushing through the bulrushes. Underfoot, the mud was soft and thick, and his robes clung to his thighs as he reached the shallows.

He had done his duty. The child had been safely delivered and whatever the Plan was for him in the future, Aziraphale has assured that his first steps would be taken somewhere far safer than his own family’s embrace.

Everything was…

He paused, still ankle-deep in the cool water, staring warily up at the figure standing on the outcrop, overlooking the curve of the river. The sun was rising behind them, stretching their long shadow over him where he stood, unarmed and defenceless. A demon, he recognised at once, though the presence wasn’t– it– it both did and didn’t feel familiar.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered. Relief or panic? He couldn’t be sure. “Ah. Crawly.”

The demon swept down from the outcrop, darting over the rocky ledges as quick as the serpent he was. He was dressed – as always – in the local fashion, though his kilt was fine black linen and he had donned one of their ornate wigs, heavy cuffs at his – oh Lord – bare arms and throat. And… and those damned perfect ankles, ringed by jingling circle of gold. His golden eyes were lined with kohl and hostility.

“That all you have to say?” Crawly demanded, prowling along the water’s edge. “Ah?”

Aziraphale fidgeted with a knot of thread on the front of his robe.

The demon’s lip curled back from his teeth. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he said, voice taut with anger. “I saw you in Ninevah. In Ur. In Zhengzhou. You’ve been dodging me. Saw me coming and ran the other way.”

Aziraphale flushed, retreating a step in the water. Would it be cowardice to scuttle back into the depths of the Nile? He could swim quite well after all. And a crocodile or two wouldn’t be a real problem.

And it would be doing exactly what the demon had noticed.

Avoiding him.

No.

Not avoiding _him_, per se.

More avoiding the temptation of being around him. Or indulging in the very secretive human pleasures they had taken with one another.

The last time, he’d– it was disgraceful, the mess he’d made of the poor fellow. Biting and marking, as if he had any right or place to lay claim to anything. And mortified that he had _wanted_ to lay claim to a demon. As charming as Crawly was, he was still a _demon_. You couldn’t– it wasn’t– 

He twisted his fingers together, avoiding the demon’s eyes. “You know we’re… we’re enemies, Crawly. We’re not meant to…” He cleared his throat. “You know…”

The demon made a derisive sound. “Didn’t stop you before, did it?” He stalked closer. “Tell me you didn’t enjoy it, _angel_. Tell me you didn’t want–”

“What I do or don’t want is irrelevant!” Aziraphale backed up a step, sloshing deeper in the water. “I– I’m here with a job to do! I can’t just…” He flapped a hand helplessly. “It’s not for me to indulge! It’s not why I’m here!”

The sun crested the lip of the rock, casting Crawly in hues of black and gold. He looked like a living flame, creased with shadow, his body taut with simmering outrage and indignation. He ought to have been preserved on a wall of the palace or the temples, etched in stone, fearsome and glorious and terrifying.

Aziraphale swallowed hard, unable to keep his eyes from tracking down over his exposed skin and – damn him – Crawly knew it too. He shifted his feet, letting his kilt settle, the thin linen clinging to his lean thighs and to the other shape swelling beneath it. Golden eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s face and – teeth bared defiantly – Crawly took his part in hand, stroking it through the fine cloth.

“Crawly…”

“What?” the demon growled, fury in every heated stroke of his hand. “Don’t want this? Don’t need this? Haven’t thought about this?” He tugged at the belt of his kilt, wrenching it loose, and opened his hands to let it slither down like a second skin.

Aziraphale’s mouth went dry as a bone, the demon bare and exposed in the warm light of day. He hadn’t been before, always in shadows, in hiding, in quiet rooms and private places and discreet alleyways. Not… not like this, not in the open, not golden and gleaming, mouth and part both pink and wet and wanting. They could be _seen_. There were boats on the river, buildings, people…

“Run away,” Crawly was trying very hard to sneer, but there was a brittleness in his voice that wrapped itself relentlessly around Aziraphale’s throat, twisting, tightening. “Go on. Tell me this isn’t what you want. Tell me to stop.”

He tried, but the words caught on his tongue and Crawly… he knew. He walked forward, step by agonising step, his hand on his body again, stroking himself. It would be so easy to reach out and touch him, but he couldn’t. He really oughtn’t. And he’d – he had to be stronger, to behave more _properly_ and stop… stop…

Crawly waded into the water, the currents lapping around the curl of his calf. He stopped there, an arm’s length from Aziraphale, meeting his eyes, the hurt and want visible in his eyes.

It would’ve been so easy to reach out and touch him, but he _couldn’t_. Not when eyes might be on them. Not when they really should never have started this. Not when they were _enemies_, for Heaven’s sake. It was all wrong.

And Crawly…

Crawly sank to his knees in the river, staring up at him, daring him to say something to touch him in any way, even just to push him back.

And he couldn’t do that either. Couldn’t do anything. Hands in knots in front of his chest. Eyes wide and wetter than they had any right to be as warm hands skirted his calves, pushing the end of his robe inexorably upwards.

Crawly stared up at him, pressing his cheek to Aziraphale’s cold, wet thigh. He tilted his head, kissed the exposed skin, and Aziraphale shuddered as the heat ran through his blood like wildfire. He couldn’t lie. Couldn’t say he hadn’t missed it, hadn’t missed him, in the centuries that had dragged by, hadn’t touched himself and tried and imagined and thought and then spent hours and days reproaching himself.

Crawly’s hands reached his hips, the robe in heavy damp folds at his belly.

Should have said no. Should have said stop. Shouldn’t have let it get this far.

And definitely should never have allowed the jut of an Adam’s part to appear, a guilty admission rising in front of Crawly’s knowing face. He didn’t look altogether happy, though, and he stared at it, then up at Aziraphale.

“What do you want?” he asked in a small, tired voice.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t know,” he confessed in a whisper. “I– I really don’t.”

Mutely, Crawly let Aziraphale’s robe fall, then unfolded from his knees. He didn’t say anything as he took Aziraphale by the wrist and led him from the water, led him from the bank, led him – too tired and lost and confused to resist – through the winding streets of Goshen and into a small, non-descript clay building.

No one noticed them.

In the quiet dimness of the house, lit only by the morning sun creeping through a narrow window high in the wall, Crawly peeled off his dark braided wig and cast it aside. His long hair was cropped short now, tiny curls tucked over his ears. His jewelled collar and bracelets followed the wig, clattering on the bare floor.

Bare and exposed without distraction or ornament. Only his eyes were adorned, dark and liquid and wary.

Aziraphale shivered then, the house cool compared to the sun-baked land outside, his robes still wet and clinging, the hems spattered with black mud of the inundation.

“Satan’s sake,” Crawly hissed and snapped his fingers.

At once, the robes were dry again, clean too, and warm.

Aziraphale pressed his hand to his belly. “Crawly–”

“You could’ve _said_ something,” Crawly erupted, pacing back and forth furiously. “You’re meant to be the _nice_ ones and you… you…” He swung around. “D’you have any idea what it’s like, being cut off like that? Like you did something wrong and don’t know what? Like–” He hissed under his breath, stalking in a tight, whippy circle again. “Don’t know why I bothered coming. Don’t know why I–” He ran his hand over his face, smudging black streaks down his cheeks. “Do you even _want_ to be here?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. Not to any of it. Had he been so cruel? He had simply… seen it as a way for them to both avoid a sticky entanglement, no matter how pleasant it was. It had – at the time – seemed sensible. Practical.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice. “I– we– what happened last time. It was… I crossed a line.”

Crawly stared at him in confused disbelief. “You what?”

Aziraphale self-consciously fiddled with his ring, staring down at it, as round and round it went. “I didn’t have the right. I… it was… I was inconsiderate.”

Wide golden eyes gaped at him. “You’re an idiot,” Crawly said bluntly.

Aziraphale flinched as if the demon has slapped him. “There’s no need for name-calling!” he exclaimed hotly.

“You crossed a line,” Crawly said, echoing him. “_How_?”

The angel frowned in confusion. “Well I… I _marked_ you. That was… I don’t have any right to do anything like that. Only” – he flicked his eyes Heavenwards – “I just– it’s not _done_.” 

Crawly was so still, like a serpent on a rock, watching him, unblinking. “D’you really believe that?”

Aziraphale’s hand strayed to his hip, where his splay of angelic markings would have been in the Heavenly plane. “Don’t you?”

For a long moment, Crawly didn’t say anything, his head tilted to one side. “Is the mark still there? The one you made?”

It wasn’t. None of them were. The demon was as bare as the humans had been in the garden and the only mark on his skin was the serpentine coil beside his right ear.

“Well… no.”

Crawly rocked on the balls of his feet and put his hands on his hip. “See? Temporary. Not permanent. Not damaging. Bit of fun, eh?”

Aziraphale lowered his eyes to his twisting hands. “I still _shouldn’t_ have–”

Abruptly, there was a warm mouth sweeping up under his, pressing his head back, and one hand in his hair and the other behind his back. He opened his mouth to protest and Crawly tongue darted between his parted lips. And, of their own volition, Aziraphale’s hands unclenched and splayed on Crawly’s narrow hips, the bare skin exquisitely warm against his palms.

“Lots of things we shouldn’t have done, angel,” Crawly whispered against his lips, then pressed their brows together. “Next time you abandon me, you tell me why.”

Aziraphale searched his eyes. “I have to stop this,” he whispered. “Crawly, I _can’t_ risk this anymore. Not being caught. I thought if they saw the marks – I thought they would know and we– we _can’t_ risk it anymore. We _can’t_.” He slid his shivering hand up the demon’s back, spreading it between his shoulder blades. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

The fingers in his hair tightened and Crawly nudged the tip of his nose against Aziraphale’s. “As if I could be,” he sighed, then covered Aziraphale’s mouth with his own, flickering his tongue to delve between Aziraphale’s lips. His other hand was bunching in Aziraphale’s robe, twisting it up. “One for the road?” he murmured between kisses. “Last hurrah and we go our separate ways?”

It was stupid and reckless and impossible to resist.

Aziraphale nodded, loosening his grip so Crawly could step back, pulling his robe up and over his head, tossing it in a heap in the floor, before Crawly crowded him back against the rough wall of the empty little house. The demon’s hand dipped down between them and Aziraphale hissed as rough fingers closed on his erect part.

“Both Adam’s?” Crawly whispered, nibbling and kissed his way to Aziraphale’s ear. “Can we try the second hole for you?”

Something they hadn’t ventured with before. Crawly enjoyed it so much, Aziraphale had never had the heart to ask, but now – the last time – it was a small token, a gift and an indulgence and he nodded at once, shuddering as Crawly sucked on his earlobe, then curled his tongue into Aziraphale’s ear.

Between hand and tongue and the heat of his presence, he was sending heat skittering through Aziraphale’s veins, leaving him squirming against the wall, hot and breathless and rocking his hips helplessly against the demon’s palm.

“Turn around, angel,” Crawly breathed, liquid honey to his ear. “Face the wall.”

On trembling legs, he obeyed, turning, bracing his forearms against the wall, crossing them, high enough to press his forehead to them. Crawly kissed his shoulder, murmuring approval. Kissed his nape. Kissed and traced his way to Aziraphale’s spine. Kissed…

“Oh _Heaven_…” Aziraphale gasped as that wicked, knowing tongue traced the crease of his backside and warm firm hands pressed to his cheeks, parting him, opening him, and Crawly’s mouth pressed to him, as if eating him alive. Crawly had many skills, but there was something divine in the skill of his tongue.

One hand slid around over Aziraphale’s hip, taking him in hand and stroking him again, Crawly’s thumb circling the head of his shaft, smearing the moisture. Not enough, Not yet, and a snap of Crawly’s fingers had his hand smooth and slick and Aziraphale keened into the meat of his forearm.

Crawly pressed his lips to the base of Aziraphale’s back. “Angel?” His fingers were stroking – teasing – against his well-licked second hole. “Can I–?”

“Y-yes. Please.” He groaned as Crawly gently, slowly sank a finger to him, little by little, letting him adjust, acclimate, _feel_ the stroke of him. And then, without warning, he moved both hands and it was if fireworks went off behind Aziraphale’s eyes. “Oh!”

“There,” Crawly murmured, kissing his back and stroking again, stroking some… some hidden part, like that throbbing nub on the Eve’s part and Aziraphale’s hips twitching, pressing back into one hand, then stroking forward to the other. Unbearably delicious on both sides and his feet skittering on the floor, on the wall holding him up, as Crawly stroked and murmured and – how Aziraphale cried out – bit him sharply on the backside.

Too much. All too much and he gasped out ragged panting sobs as his hips shuddered and Crawly licked and kissed the bite, added another finger, push-pulled him, squeezed him, urged him until he spilled himself on the wall in front of him, hot breaths smothered in his tightly folded arms.

Crawly’s hands returned to his hips, steadying him when his legs threatened to give way under him, then those hot pressing lips darted up his spine in meandering patterns, Crawly slithering up the length of his body until he covered him like a shadow. The heat of his Adam’s part stroked slowly back and forth against the cleft of Aziraphale’s backside, an unspoken offer.

As silently, Aziraphale moved his feet a little way apart, pushed his hips back and felt more than heard Crawly’s heated hiss against his shoulder.

The demon’s hands tightened on his hip and Aziraphale pressed his eyes shut – unseen – a small sound somewhere between pain and pleasure eking from his tight throat as Crawly pressed into him. Slowly, excruciatingly, exquisitely, agonisingly, deliciously slowly, until their bodies were flush against one another, both of them still but for the rapid rise-fall of their ribs.

Lips brushed his neck, so gentle. “Angel?” Crawly breathed, hot and shivery. “You okay?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale nodded tightly, face buried in his arms. Wet. Stupid, really. To be… affected. To be emotional. He took another quivering breath. Better not to mull on it, better to– to–

He pushed back, felt the hiss of air on spit-damped skin.

“Please,” he breathed out. “More.” Crawly nipped at his shoulder, then caught his hips and _moved_. Though slim as a reed, he still had that serpent strength, the ripple of his body against Aziraphale’s sending fresh stuttering sparks along already prickling nerve endings. Aziraphale’s fingers bit into his upper arms, his lips crushed together as he keened, meeting Crawly’s every urgent, almost silent thrust with the rock of his body.

It wasn’t cruel or painful or anything of the kind, but it rattled down to his bones until he was gasping into his own skin. There would be bruises come nightfall. Fingers on his hips and his arms. Teeth in his shoulder. Marks. Yes. Good. He needed to be marked, if only for a little while, a reminder, a brief, ephemeral moment of pleasure imprinted into his very corporation for him to remember until it faded.

And Crawly moved and moved and his lips parted over his teeth and he bit and sucked and nipped and marked and Aziraphale was shuddering under his ministrations, legs shaking, whole body faltering and teetering and an arm whipped around his waist, snake-fast, holding him up, steady, there as Crawly shuddered through his release, the weight of his body against Aziraphale’s back a warm and welcome mantle.

He didn’t make a sound, Aziraphale thought, dazed and trembling. Not a sound. Barely more than a ripple of air on skin.

The arm around him held him fast, the other appearing over his shoulder, bracing on the wall, and – slowly, gently – Crawly lowered them to their knees on the straw-matted floor. Aziraphale sagged forward against the wall, still breathing hard, unpicking one finger at a time from his aching arms, as Crawly slipped free of his body, loosening his arms, pulling away.

The world was hazy, warm and quiet and Aziraphale tried to find words he had to say. There had to be words. It meant something. There had to be words. An ending, a gentle one. They had to. It had to be done properly.

Behind him, the hinges of the door creaked and he turned, confused.

The room was empty. Crawly was gone.


	8. Lesson 8 - 33AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but an important one.

The ground was still trembling underfoot, the sky as dark as night, even though it was still several hours until sundown. Aziraphale’s heart lodged in his throat as he stared at the centre of the three crosses and the man – the body – hanging there now.

“I suppose we can–” He turned, realising – too late – that he was alone.

Among the scattering, quailing crowd, he saw the slender black-clad figure slithering away. He… he ought to let her go. He didn’t have any place chasing after her, especially not when she’d been avoiding him for so many years and only appeared to snipe at him below the cross.

But she’d seemed… upset. Quieter than he remembered. Sombre.

And he remembered sitting on the rain-swept deck of the ark and the sight of Crawly when he alighted, dripping and lit by hellish fire, only to offer a hand and comfort to Aziraphale in his time of need.

The angel cast a glance back at the man on the cross.

_Be kind_, he thought. The lesson that humanity should have learned. Perhaps a lesson that angels should have learned as well.

“Crawly!” he called, hurrying after the demon.

Perhaps she didn’t hear him, but far more likely, she was trying to avoid him as she had ever since that strange and unhappy day in Egypt. Oh, they had crossed paths, but he had only caught a whisper of a scent, a glimpse of red hair through the crowds, a flash of golden eyes.

“Not this time,” he muttered, picking up his pace and trotting rapidly back towards the city gates, fixing his eyes on her. She _knew_ as well. She knew enough to step into side streets as soon as they were through the gates, disappearing into the labyrinth of houses, walking more quickly, even running up a long flight of stairs.

She didn’t look back, not even once.

“Crawly!” Aziraphale called. “For Heaven’s sake! Wait! Please!”

Ahead of him, the slender silhouette froze.

“What?” she snapped, her hands clenching and unclenching by her sides as he hurried to catch up with her.

Aziraphale hesitated a stone’s throw from her, fidgeting with his ring. “I thought– that is to say– this is a terrible business and you seemed upset.” He took a cautious step in her direction. “Are you all right?”

He half-expected a laugh, a rebuke, something, but he certainly didn’t anticipate the wet golden eyes that turned to stare at him.

“No,” Crawly said, her voice a cracked thing. “No, I’m not and you– _your_ lot did _that_!” She jabbed a finger in the direction of Golgotha. “He was one of the good ones and your lot lined him up like a piece of meat, made him believe it was…” Her face twisted, her body taut as a wire. “Torture as well! Deliberately! Had him born and made for _that_. Your lot. This lot. You’re all as bad as each other!”

Aziraphale couldn’t face the grief in those shining wet eyes. “It’s–”

“I swear if you say ineffable right now, I’m going to swing for you,” Crawly hissed. She shook her head, curls spilling out of her veil. “Satan’s sake, I should just go off. Bugger the lot of you.”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. “Crawly, you _can’t_–”

“My _name_,” the demon snarled, lunging towards him, “is _Crowley_. I’m not– I didn’t–” She recoiled, face crumpling up in grief. “D’you know he talked to me? Just– he talked. Like I was anyone else. No airs or graces. Nothing.” Fresh tears broke from her eyes. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone– someone like _him_ has even acknowledged I exist?” She tugged at her veil, her fingers trembling, and took a shaking breath. “Not just… something squirming at his feet.”

Something like a rock settled in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Oh,” he breathed softly. “My dear…”

She tried to scoff, baring her teeth, rolling her eyes, but when he approached her – patient and calm as one would approach a skittish colt – she didn’t back away. Nor did she shy from his touch when gently brushed her arms through her robe.

“Come with me,” he said gently, drawing her with him.

She came, but to the angel, it seemed as if he held a piece of fragile Jericho-blown glass in his hands, hairline cracks rippling through the beautiful surface. Touch too hard or in the wrong spot and, it could shatter in his palms, cutting him to ribbons in the same instant.

People throbbed through the city, voices raised, shouts and cries and the sky still black and forbidding. The lightning had, at least, stopped, though as he hurried Cra- Crowley on, he heard gasps of dismay about the Tabernacle and the Holy of Holies.

He had only come to bear witness, as ordered, but something new, something powerful pulsed through the veins of the city. They’d heard the man’s words and his declamations and now this? Black skies and earthquakes and sheet lightning and the temple laid bare?

Aziraphale shivered, grateful – for once – to be in the literal and proverbial dark.

Between the crowds and the panic, it took them some time to reach Aziraphale’s modest lodgings, only a stone’s throw from the temple mount. A flicker of his fingers brushed aside any questions about the black-robed stricken woman in his arms and at last, at last, he ushered her into his room and closed and bolted the door behind them.

Crowley walked forward stiffly into the room. She hadn’t said a word as they wound through the city and now, she moved as stilted as an automaton. “Ah.”

“Ah?” He reached up to unwind his turban, pushing his fingers through sweat-damped curls.

“Like the ark,” she said and turned to face him, her expression waxy and blank. Her fingers curled in the front of her robes. “Thought this might put you off.”

“Put me–” Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh! No! No, dear!” He cast his turban aside, onto the narrow cot against the wall. “No, it’s– no.” He approached, hands upheld soothingly. “I didn’t bring you here for any other purpose.”

She stared at him as if she couldn’t understand, then closed the distance between them and cupped a hand between his legs. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale caught her wrist gently. “No,” he insisted, closing her hand between his. “Crowley, you’re _upset_. I wouldn’t–”

She yanked her hand back, pulling up her skirts. “And what if I want to?” she demanded, baring copper curls and Eve’s part to him, her hands curled in white-knuckled fists in her robe. “I helped you, didn’t I? Least you can do.” She snatched one of his hands roughly, pushing it between her thighs, pinning it there. “Go on! Help me, then.”

He let his hand lie there, as still as she was, warm and dry and motionless.

“I don’t think you want that.”

Her ever-animated mouth twisted and twitched, her eyes brimming. “You know that, do you? Think you know me so well?”

“I know you care, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, cautiously lifting his other hand to touch her cheek. She flinched, but didn’t shy away and he uncurled his fingers, brushing them along her jaw. “I can see you’re upset. I thought…. I wondered…” He smiled sadly, stroked a thumb along her cheekbone, so much sharper than he remembered. “I don’t know if you’d accept my comfort, such as it is. No ulterior motives. Nothing selfish.”

It took her several attempts to shape and spit out the word. “Why?”

“For him,” he said. “Be kind. That was what he asked. May I?”

Her hands trembled around his wrist and she stared at him, eyes wider and wetter and overflowing. No more words never made it past her shivering lips, but she let go of his wrist and sagged, folding down onto her knees on the floor.

He knelt too and, when he inched closer, she swayed into him like a serpent to their charmer.

Aziraphale drew her inexorably closer, but everso glacially slowly, letting her rest her head on his shoulder, letting her tremble, her hands clutching at his robe, nails turning sharper and cutting through to scratch at his chest. No a sound escaped her, he noticed, not even a single sob, but she trembled like a leaf in a gale.

At some point, her veil slipped down from her hair, the vermillion curls stark and bright in the bland-walled room. He cupped the back of her head, ran his fingers through her hair, smoothed it across her back, and talked soft nonsense, about the places he’d been and thinks he’d seen since they had last spoken. Of a wine she ought to try, of places where they had rather dashing clothing she might like, so many little things that has reminded him of her, even when they hadn’t spoken for centuries.

Little by little, she breathed more evenly, her hands no longer clawing at his chest. Aziraphale tilted his head to press a gentle kiss to her temple. Crowley’s sigh whispered against the bare skin at the opening of his robe.

“I’m _tired_,” she whispered.

He could let her be, give her his room and return into the bustling chaos of the city. Peace and privacy and somewhere to mourn.

But…

But…

She weighed barely anything at all when he scooped her – unresisting – in his arms. The bed widened obligingly and he knelt on the edge, laying her down, and even before she reached for his arm to keep him from withdrawing, he stretched out on it beside her and drew her to curl beside him. Her hand snaked up to rest over his heart, fingertips pressing, one curling, dipping under the collar of his robe. 

In the dim light, he could pick out the glow of her eyes.

“You’re staying?” So fragile, as if she scarcely believed it.

He covered her hand on his chest, squeezed it gently. “Well, it _is_ my bed,” he murmured.

She laughed, then. Small and brittle, but still a laugh. “How _kind_,” she murmured.

He rubbed his cheek against her brow. “Oh, you know,” he said, his chest rising and falling beneath their hands. “I have my moments.”

Outside, the city grew quiet and through the window high on the wall, glimpses of starlight glittered against the dark velvet of the night.

“Y’know,” Crowley murmured.

“Hm?”

“Earthquake was overkill.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Showing off a bit, I suspect,” he replied as quietly. “Just in case anyone missed the memo.”

Crowley curled her fingers, hooking two more over the collar of his robe, tangling in the soft hair on his chest. “Bastards.” She knocked her knuckles gently against his chest. “You hanging around? I mean…” She shrugged. “After everything?”

“A few more days,” he confirmed, gazing up at the wooden beams of the ceiling above them. “I have some duties to see to through Shabbat and then Gabriel mentioned something about the morning after, but then I’ll be on my way.”

Crowley shifted, a soft sigh whispering over his skin. “Hate it,” she said softly, unhappily. “Why are they such bastards to each other?”

Not just talking about the Heavenly cohort, Aziraphale thought, coiling his fingers into her hair.

“Free will, my dear,” he said. “They have the choice.”

Crowley squirmed again, one leg snaking over Aziraphale’s, the weight of her body growing as she relaxed against him. “S’stupid,” she said, so softly he could barely hear her. “S’all stupid.”

“I know,” he agreed, stroking his hand over and over until she subsided against him, face tucking against his throat, ribs rising and falling against his.

He had never been one for sleep. Resting, yes. One’s corporation did get tired from time to time. But sleep had never been something to interest him. Instead, he shifted his position just enough to see Crowley’s drawn face, silvered by moonlight.

How he had underestimated her and misunderstood her. No wonder his actions had wounded her so, so many centuries ago. No wonder she had avoided him as one learns to avoid touching something that can burn them. And yet to still take comfort from him, when he had caused such pain.

“I shan’t do that again, my dear,” he murmured, tilting his head to kiss her brow. “Never again.”

Crowley grumbled in her sleep, her hand slithering down over his side, coiling around him as snugly as her leg, and despite himself, Aziraphale smiled. Once a serpent, always a serpent, it seemed.


	9. Lesson 9 - 41AD

Aziraphale had to admit he was feeling quite pleased with himself.

When he’d spotted Crowley in the bar, his heart had flip-flopped in the most delightful way. They hadn’t seen one another since Jerusalem, eight years ago, not since the night he had decided without question that he would take better care of the demon in future. They’d parted ways in the small hours of the morning and since then, he had kept one eye open for the demon.

And suddenly, that familiar voice rang out and there he was.

True, Crowley hadn’t approached him.

In fact, he was giving off the most prickly of moods, but he was there, and so, Aziraphale plucked up the nerve to approach _him_ for the first time, settling in the seat beside him and getting a drink. Crowley didn’t seem altogether happy, but that suited Aziraphale fine, because it meant he had exactly the chance he needed to try and cheer the other fellow up.

Who knew that teasing him with an offer of temptation was enough to make the jagged prickliness smooth down?

Crowley gave him that look, that twitch of his lips that was a precursor to a smile, and after a couple more drinks, he conceded that all right, yes, he’d come along for oysters.

“They really are remarkable, you know,” Aziraphale prattled happily, merrily in his cups, as they stepped out onto the bustling street. “Such a fascinating combination of textures and flavours. Honestly, I didn’t know what I’d been missing.”

At his side, Crowley snickered. “I don’t remember you turning down food before.”

“Ah. Well. Yes. There was… rather an element of conforming to societal expectations there,” Aziraphale admitted with a halting smile. “Humans find it rather alarming if people don’t engage in hospitality, but ingesting… gross matter is rather frowned upon in Heaven, so I tried to limit it as much as I could.”

“Uh huh.” The prickliness was almost entirely gone. “How’d that work out for you?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, giving the demon a look that wasn’t as cross as he tried to pretend. “Oh, do be quiet.”

Crowley laughed. “I’m just saying,” he said, swaying lazily against Aziraphale’s side as they meandered their way down towards the docks. “Never got invited for dinner before.”

Well, yes, that _was_ true.

As much as he hated to admit it, Aziraphale’s ideals had been given a good hard kick by the events of Jerusalem. If a man who did everything right could still be sacrificed by Heaven’s hands, what was the point of doing absolutely everything right all the time?

And surely treating others kindly also meant treating one’s self kindly as well? So he had. He had allowed himself to indulge a little more, to try things he had only watched longingly from the sidelines for so many years. It hurt no one, after all, and it gave him little pleasures when his duties were exhausting and onerous and sometimes, bloody and bleak.

“It’s a very human thing to do,” he said primly. “People do it all the time.”

The demon looked far too amused. “And you came all this way for seafood?”

“_And_ a blessing or two,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m just… taking advantage of the circumstances.” He waved a hand ahead. “Ah, there it is!” He reached out and patted Crowley’s arm. “It has _quite_ the reputation.”

“Well then…” Crowley made a grand, sweeping gesture. “Lead the way.”

The tavern was, as Aziraphale had expected, uncommonly busy but a table miraculously opened up in the perfect place: not too close that the stink of the street could reach them, but not crammed into one of the darker corners at that back. A narrow window higher up the wall allowed a thin shaft of daylight to slice down over them.

“Here we are,” Aziraphale said happily, settling down on one of the stools at the small table.

Crowley glanced around. “Popular place,” he observed.

“Mm.” Aziraphale nodded, waving over the young girl. While most places took orders at the counter, Aziraphale had found that a respectable white toga and an air of authority made things so much easier to get things done. “Would you like some more wine, my dear?”

Crowley shrugged, rucking up his overly layered black toga. “Why not?”

Aziraphale beamed at him and placed his order with the girl, then turned his full attention back to the demon at his side. Still clad in his habitual black, Crowley had – much to Aziraphale chagrin – lopped off all of the copper cascades of his hair again. More fashionable, he supposed, but he had been dreadfully fond of those long red waves.

“Those are new,” he said, waving a finger in the direction of the small black lenses Crowley had propped in frames in front of his eyes.

Crowley, lounging against the wall, raised a hand to touch them. “Yeah. Felt like a change.”

It took the angel a moment, then he understood. Crowley had very little that gave away his demonic identity, but the eyes of a serpent – “something squirming at his feet” – were unmistakably inhuman.

“Well,” he said, giving Crowley a smile. “I think they are very dashing.”

That earned another of those slanted grins. “Dashing. Yeah. That’s _exactly_ what I was going for.”

Aziraphale wiggled happily on his seat. There, that was better. Easing away all the prickliness and sharpness. Being _kind_ for the sake of it. Crowley had made him smile often enough, it was only fair that he could do the same as well. Perhaps the ale and the wine had helped, but that was neither here nor there.

The girl returned carrying a pitcher of wine, clay cups, and a platter of bread fresh from the oven, beautifully cooked with only a couple of crisp burnt bubbles. Aziraphale snatched some up at once, tearing it in half, and held it out to Crowley.

“You’re really rolling with this human hospitality thing aren’t you?”

“Well, if I _am_ to live among them,” Aziraphale retorted, “fitting in is only appropriate.” He dipped the bread into the small bowl of olive oil on the table, then groaned in pleasure as he ate it, the rich yeasty flavour and salt and herbs utterly delicious.

“Appropriate,” Crowley echoed, clearly fighting to hide a grin. “Uh huh.” He tore off a small piece of the bread, dipping and nibbling it too. “You _enjoy_ it.”

Aziraphale licked the oil from his finger and thumb. “Perhaps a little.”

One of those copper brows arched over the black lenses and Aziraphale was gratified to realise he really didn’t _need_ to see those golden eyes to know exactly which expression Crowley was wearing. “A little?”

The angel flapped a hand. “I didn’t bring you along to get into semantics,” he said, reaching for the jug and pouring them each a generous measure of wine. Best in the house, though Crowley didn’t need to know that. “Shut up and drink your wine.”

Crowley licked at his sharp canine, leaning forward to prop one arm on the table, and grinned. It was a very particular kind of grin and it made Aziraphale’s cheeks flush and he flapped a hand again.

“Oh, hush!”

“Didn’t say a thing, angel,” the demon drawled, still grinning.

“You didn’t _have_ to,” Aziraphale grumbled amiably. “I can read you like a tablet.”

Crowley chuckled, tilting his cup towards him. “D’you know what I’ve heard?” he murmured against the lip of his cup.

“What’s that?” Another bit of oil dripping bread slipped between Aziraphale’s lips.

“About oysters,” Crowley continued, teeth peeking through the slight smirk.

“Do tell?”

The damned demon waited until Aziraphale took another bite of bread. “They’re aphrodisiacs.”

Aziraphale coughed, chewed and very deliberately swallowed. “Oh, I know _that_.”

“So that’s what this is all about, is it?” Crowley slanted himself forward over the table. “Luring me here under false pretences.”

“No!” Aziraphale pinked properly, glowering at him. “I happen to think they’re rather nice!”

“Uh huh.”

“The fact they may have some… interesting side qualities is entirely unrelated,” he insisted. “I didn’t mean– that is to– oh, for Heaven’s sake–” He glowered even more determinedly as Crowley lolled back against the wall, laughing like the fiend he was.

“Your _face_,” he crowed, grinning from ear to ear.

Oh, two could play at _that_ game.

The girl delivered the oysters in short order, distracting Crowley from making gleeful fun of Aziraphale for a moment. He peered at them, still nestled in their shells, eyebrows arching over his lenses.

“Are they meant to look like…” He waved vaguely to his groin. “You know? Eve’s part?”

“Why do you think they’re considered aphrodisiacs?” Aziraphale replied, scooping up a shell and tilting it, deliberately sliding his tongue to scoop up the meat of the oyster and swallowing it down in one gulp. Vinegar and brine clung to his lips and he licked at them, then met – presumably, if Crowley was actually looking at him – Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley’s mouth opened and shut a couple of times. “Ngk,” he said, eloquent as ever.

Aziraphale constrained a smile, dragging his stool a little closer to Crowley’s. “Here,” he said, scooping up another shell. “Try one. Humans have learned some remarkable tricks with food.”

Those expressive eyebrows drew down, only for a moment, and Aziraphale knew Crowley had caught on to his little game. Emphasised in the way Crowley slid his fingers around Aziraphale’s wrist, guiding his hand, the way he tilted his head, the way that tongue curled into the shell, around the meat… oh Lord in Heaven…

Aziraphale promptly dropped the shell.

Crowley sat back, as if he hadn’t done a thing, and chewed thoughtfully. “S’all right,” he said. “Nothing to write home about.”

“You–” Aziraphale bit off his words, because Crowley’s lips were twitching and oh, it was a challenge now, was it? He considered the bread, the oil, the oysters. “If it’s only all right, then you really ought to try another. Like this.”

He lifted a particularly juicy specimen, curling his fingers around the shell and licking his lips appreciatively. Even if he couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes, he could _tell_ when he was being watched and, oh, Crowley was _watching_.

So Aziraphale tilted his head back, tipped the shell, just above his lips, the tip of his tongue out to catch the oyster as it fell and – with his other hand – smudged the briny liquid from his skin. He glanced at the ball of his thumb, then sneaked out his tongue to lick it clean too.

The table jolted against his leg, Crowley’s elbow knocking hard against the edge.

“Starting to see why humans think those gooey lumps are doing something to get their motors running,” the demon’s voice was hoarser than it had been a moment.

“Oh?” Aziraphale set the shell down on the table, but didn’t quite release it, running his thumb slowly along the smooth interior. Colour bloomed across Crowley’s cheeks, his head turned towards the table, his eyes no doubt fixed on that shell.

“Nggg.”

Aziraphale leaned closer. “You should try another.”

Those dark lenses turned back to his face and Crowley blindly reached out to the platter of shells, dragging one close. “S’the texture,” he said throatily and Aziraphale male the critical error of looking down to see Crowley’s thumb slide suggestively beneath the meat of the oyster.

“And the flavour, don’t you think?” he murmured, watching, mesmerised, as Crowley lifted the shell and curled that devilish tongue of his. The oyster vanished and another flick of that tongue laved the inside of the shell clean and send a wave of heat scorching through Aziraphale’s body.

Crowley’s teeth gleamed white in the barest suggestion of a grin. “I’ve tasted better.”

Heat spread up the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

They were only meant to be out to dine, truly they were.

And yet…

And yet, he had suggested they go for _oysters_ of all things. Of all the foods in the Roman repertoire, he had picked Aphrodite’s bounty to educate Crowley about human cuisine. A self-fulfilling prophecy, if ever there was one.

He groped for the plate, taking refuge in the safer haven of warm bread. It sank too far into the oil and his dripping fingers hung, suspended, over the table.

“Drop the bread,” Crowley said softly and he did at once.

Crowley’s fingers curled under his wrist, lifting his hand, threading the fingers of his other hand between Aziraphale’s, splaying, slowly spreading the warm oil up, their fingers sliding together until they interlocked, shimmering and wet and lubricated.

“I don’t see how that helped,” Aziraphale breathed, curling his fingers over Crowley’s knuckles, their slick palms kissing.

Those teeth glinted again as Crowley dropped his hand.

“You know what I like best about these clothes?” Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale shook his head, curling his fingers in again, mourning the loss of contact. “I have no idea. I only know…” His breath hitched as a warm hand slid beneath his toga, tracing oiled tracks over his knee and up his thigh. “_Oh_.”

“Mm.” Crowley gazed around the tavern, as if thoroughly interested. “Practically in a tent, with these things. Loose. Roomy. Plenty of drape to them.” He curled his fingers, nails digging into Aziraphale’s thigh, the firm pressure urging his legs to part. “Could hide _anything_ under there.”

“Yes. Ah. Well.” Aziraphale shifted on the stool, angling his body ever so slightly towards Crowley’s, stretching out his other leg beneath the table. His toga shifted, the heavy spill of it cascading out of the way as Crowley’s hand inch further up. It took the thought of a moment for Adam’s part to take shape, springing hotly against Crowley’s smooth palm.

The demon propped his left hand on the table, cupping his chin. “Have another oyster,” he suggested. “They’re nice and”–his right hand closed and squeezed, drawing a sharp gasp from Aziraphale’s lips–“firm.”

“Yes, they are rather…” Aziraphale made himself reach for one, meeting Crowley’s eyes as if nothing untoward was happening at all. As if a nimble hand wasn’t slowly, lazily stroking him. As if Crowley wasn’t gazing at him the way a parched man would at water in the desert.

“Go on,” Crowley urged, stroking him more firmly. “Taste it.”

The oyster slid down beautifully, the tang on his tongue, the heat of Crowley’s touch on his skin, the encouraging murmur, the scent of him so close, all far too much at once.

“Another,” the demon breathed and he could hardly refuse, not when the heady combination was a delicious assault on his senses.

He held Crowley’s eyes – tried to at least – and devoured one oyster, then another, his hands fumbling as Crowley quickened his pace, lips and chin wet with vinegar and brine. When he caught the edge of the table with one hand, Crowley’s hidden wrist with another, gasps sputtered with salt across his lips as he spilled himself all over Crowley’s fingers.

Crowley gave a pleased sigh, listing sideways against the table. His second hand reappeared, dripping, and he reached up with it to stroke his thumb through the smears on Aziraphale’s face. “You made such a mess,” he said, sounding altogether too pleased with himself.

Aziraphale snared his wrist and before Crowley could stop him, licked his spend from the demon’s fingers. Crowley flushed, but didn’t move, staring at him from behind those little lenses of his, barely even breathing as Aziraphale sucked down one finger then another, humming his pleasure at a different kind of salt.

“Angel…” Crowley choked. “People.”

Sadly, he was right and the angel glanced around. Neither of their people had reproached him for his indulgences since Jerusalem, so what was one more? “Upstairs?” he suggested, pleasantly warmed by his release and the wine and being back on better terms with Crowley. “I think – rooms.”

Crowley’s face lit up in a way Aziraphale hadn’t seen for eversuch a long time.

“Go on, then,” he said.

Aziraphale dropped a handful of coins on the table and arranged his toga as he got up, blushing at the brush of damp cloth against his skin. “I didn’t expect–” He waved a hand helplessly. “When we ran into one another, I didn’t plan on– this wasn’t some _scheme_ or–”

“I know, angel,” Crowley said with a chuckle, circling around the table and pressing a hand to Aziraphale’s back, chivvying him towards the door. “You couldn’t scheme your way out of a wet paper bag.”

Aziraphale flushed even more. “I _could_,” he protested half-heartedly. “If I wanted to.”

“Uh huh.” Crowley’s hand slid down a bit and squeezed a yip of surprise out of the angel. “Another day maybe.”

A narrow flight of stairs flanked the side of the building and Aziraphale hurried up them before he could get too flustered and change his mind. There was a large room above the tavern but smaller rooms opened off it and – he felt the prickle of a conveniently diabolical miracle – a pair of people staggered out of one, leaving it vacant.

To his surprise, the place was pristine when they hurried in.

“Did you do…” he began, turning to Crowley, only for lips to press to his.

Crowley spun him, pushing him up against the wall, his tongue slipping between Aziraphale’s lips to brush against the angel’s. Aziraphale moaned happily, melting into him, though the moan turned into a throaty laugh when Crowley’s greedy kisses turned into outraged swearing and he tugged futilely at Aziraphale’s toga.

He couldn’t help himself, drawing back as much as he could and smirking. “I thought you liked these clothes?”

Crowley glowered at him. “Not when they’re in the way!” He yanked another handful of white cloth off Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Satan’s sake, you didn’t need to wear a whole roll of the stuff!”

Aziraphale reached up, catching him around the back of the head and kissing him again. Lord, he had missed that, the greedy slip-slide of warm, soft, pliant lips against his, the small urgent sounds Crowley made, the simplicity of the physicality between them.

“Sit on the bed,” he murmured against Crowley’s lips.

“Fully-dressed?” Crowley made a face at him.

“You don’t need to undress for what I have in mind.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure which of them was pinker in the face, but Crowley backed across the room until his calves hit the edge of the bed and sat down with a bump. His small glass lenses had slipped down his nose and for a moment, Aziraphale could see the wide-eyed expression on his face.

He stood where he was for a moment, rearranging the heavy folds of his toga into the more respectable position, smoothing the cloth and drinking in the way Crowley’s eyes followed every movement of his hand. Oh, it was a relief to know he wasn’t the only one to have missed this.

“I didn’t come up here for a fashion show,” Crowley grumbled, fingers digging into the frame of the bed on either side of him.

Aziraphale smiled primly. “One day, you’ll learn the value of patience,” he said, stepping a little closer, close enough for Crowley’s hand to whip out and catch his hip, drawing him nearer still. Aziraphale couldn’t help curving his hand to cup Crowley’s cheek, his breath hitching as the demon nuzzled into his palm, then tipped himself forward, pressing his brow to Aziraphale’s belly.

“Never gonna happen.” His mumble was muffled in the front of Aziraphale’s toga.

Aziraphale traced his finger gently along the taut arc of his neck. “I’ll hope for a miracle,” he murmured, then stepped back and folded down onto his knees on the floor in front of Crowley, laying his hands lightly on Crowley’s cloth-hidden thighs. “May I?”

Crowley grabbed the fabric of his toga, hauling it up in heavy folds over his skinny knees.

His calves were still beautiful, curving down to those lovely ankles and Aziraphale ran his hands down the back of both, then back up. “Lovely.” His fingers curved just behind Crowley’s knees, dragging his legs wider apart.

“What do you fancy?” Crowley asked, voice harsh with want, his hands kneading at his toga like a particularly determined cat.

Aziraphale gazed at him, then _yanked_, dragging him a little way off the bed. “Eve’s, if you don’t mind, my dear,” he murmured, lowering his head to place a kiss on one knee, then the other, making careful note of Crowley’s shiver of pleasure. “The oysters have put me in the mind for it.”

“Ugh,” Crowley huffed, slithering his hips a little further forward. “M’not a shellfish.”

“I know, my dear, but really… the things you did with your tongue…” With a lazy push, Aziraphale crowded Crowley’s toga up over his thighs to heap over his belly. And between Crowley’s thighs, nested in copper curls, glistening and pink and inviting, lay his Eve’s part. “Oh my word. You’ve been working on this, haven’t you?”

Crowley, propped on his elbows, rolled his eyes, grinning happily. “Figured out what I like,” he said and shuddered as Aziraphale leaned down and exhaled a soft, cool breath against the exposed skin. “Ngh!”

Flanked by warm thighs on either side and such a tantalising sight ahead of him, Aziraphale rubbed his cheek on Crowley’s thigh in consideration. Yes, of course, he had touched Crowley’s Eve’s part before, but now, he wanted to do something special, to make amends for the messes he’d made in the past.

“Not a wall painting, angel!” Crowley nudged at him with his thigh.

Aziraphale’s gazed flicked up to meet his, then he moved ducking under Crowley’s thighs with his shoulders and _lifting_. Crowley yelped in surprise and clutching at him, tilted to Aziraphale’s mouth, then clutching at him again when Aziraphale laved at his part with his tongue. Already wet and warm, he was _intoxicating_, and Aziraphale moaned against him, kneading at Crowley’s thighs over his shoulders.

Crowley gasped and squirmed, sinking one hand into Aziraphale’s hair, the other doing God only knew what, as Crowley rolled his hips into Aziraphale’s greedy, demanding licks. He sought out that nub of nerves and fire at the very peak of Crowley’s sex, basking in the yowl from the demon as he closed his lips around it and sucked at it.

“Fuck!” Crowley wailed, his fist curling in Aziraphale’s hair, rutting desperately against Aziraphale’s face.

Easy enough to brace one arm over Crowley’s hips to hold him in place and slip the other hand beneath him, parting sopping slick folds with his thumb, seeking out the familiar opening. Crowley movements increased in urgency, his whole body writhing, until a rock of his hips pressed Aziraphale’s thumb deep into him.

“Oh Hell…” Crowley groaned, then again, as – with thumb, tongue and judicious application of the tip of his nose – Aziraphale thoroughly set to work at the long-neglected part. Fingers replaced thumb, plunging deep, as lips and tongue paid tender homage to the throbbing nub at the top of his sex, Aziraphale’s other hand kneading at Crowley’s hip. Crowley’s heels pummelled at Aziraphale’s shoulders and he keened, wrenching Aziraphale’s hair. “Angel–oh _Hell_ – angel!”

Aziraphale smiled as he lifted his head. Crowley didn’t even notice, his free hand clamped over his face, the few visible bits of his skin delightfully-flushed. No longer the smug demon with his hand under a table. Oh no. No, he was a mess and he looked debauched and ravished and Aziraphale had every intention of making sure he didn’t forget it.

He plunged back down, replacing his finger with his tongue, licking hungrily into him, then upwards again, swirling intricate and heated patterns into the sensitive thrumming flesh until Crowley cried out and kicked at his back. And when Crowley subsided, panting and shaking and seemed to assume he was spent, Aziraphale smiled knowingly and began anew.

“A-angel!”

“Fuck! Oh _fuuuuuuuuuuuuck_!”

“It’s– I– Satan’s sake–”

A final feeble tug of his hair made Aziraphale lift his head.

“’Nough,” Crowley croaked out. “’Nough.”

Aziraphale rubbed his cheek against Crowley’s thigh, glancing at the window high up the wall. Good Lord. When had it turned to night time? His jaw _was_ aching a little, but there had been something so satisfying about seeing Crowley in his pleasure, over and over and over…

“Are you sure?” he murmured.

“Nggg.” Crowley tugged at the collar of Aziraphale’s tunic. “Up.”

Aziraphale gently tilted each of Crowley’s thighs from his shoulders and knelt up between his thighs, propping his arms across the demon’s middle. He yawned, flexing his jaw and sighed contentedly. “Satisfied?”

Crowley’s glasses had fallen off at some point and he gave the angel a flat look, waving a floppy hand towards his equally floppy body. “Ng.”

“Very eloquent.” Aziraphale wondered if it was wrong to feel so comfortable and sated and happy. Even more so when Crowley’s floppy hand yanked up a hank of Crowley’s rumpled toga and mopped at Aziraphale’s face, swiping at the moisture still clinging to his skin. “Did I miss a spot?”

Another pointed glare from eyes nearly crossed from pleasure. “Mmf.” Fumbling fingers managed to grab the collar of his tunic, yanking him down and Crowley planted a clumsy kiss on his lips. Another limp noodle of an arm fell across his shoulders, holding him there. “Mm.”

Aziraphale braced a hand on the bed below them, gazing down at those familiar golden – albeit very hazy now – eyes. Floppy serpentine legs draped around his middle and he smiled crookedly. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, dropping a kiss on the end of Crowley’s nose, “I didn’t plan on running off.”

A drowsy smile spread across Crowley’s face and – with visible effort – he wriggled his way around to lie on the bed properly, tugging Aziraphale with him. It was a narrow mattress, not made for two, but somehow, Crowley managed to squirm and wriggle and they fit together on it, face-to-face, eye-to-eye.

Crowley gave a small, contented grunt, knocked his forehead against Aziraphale’s forehead and yawned. With one last wriggle, he tucked his face into the angel’s throat and, in a matter of seconds, was asleep and snoring.

Aziraphale curled a hand over the nape of his neck, stroking gentle circles on his bare skin. “I know,” he confessed in a whisper. “I like it too.”


	10. Lesson 10 - 542AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning: this chapter contains mention of attempted sexual assault and a very tipsy snek. Don't worry. The assaulter gets what is coming to him.

**542AD**

Several years in the court of King Arthur was starting to prove a little wearing.

Aziraphale swung down from his horse with a clank, wincing as the armour and sword settled into place again. Why they _insisted_ on donning armour when they had such a soggy climate was beyond him, and yet, here he was. Again. Shrouded by mist and quite probably starting to rust at the joints.

His horse shifted anxiously, whickering, its ears flat against its skull, which certainly wasn’t normal. It had seen a lot of weird and fantastical things, that horse. It had certainly seen Merlin and his private glade before.

The place lay in the middle of a supposedly sacred forest, where Merlin practised his magical rites and rituals away from the prying eyes of the court.

Privately, Aziraphale suspected he used it to get five minutes peace from the constant politicking and melodrama of Arthur’s court. He couldn’t really blame him either. The ongoing trouble with that Mordred lad filled him with foreboding.

“Hello?” he called, peering through the trees, treading carefully through the tangled undergrowth. Honestly, would it be so difficult to cut a path through the shrubberies? It wasn’t as if he didn’t have visitors. “Lord Merlin? The King has sent me to seek your council and, if you will, your presence at Camel…”

He paused on the edge of the clearing, frowning.

Well, former clearing.

Now, there was a rather magnificent oak tree. At least twenty feet high, its trunk easily a good six feet in circumference, the broad branches formed a leafy canopy, covering the entire glade. From the size, it had to be at least ten years old, if not much more, and yet it certainly hadn’t been there a year before.

“What on earth…” He clanked closer, circling it curiously, then yelped in alarm at the sight of a pair of pale legs. “Oh! Madame! Excuse–” He gaped. “_Crowley_?”

At the foot of the tree, the demon glowered up at him. He – no, she. Definitely she today – had a clay bottle in one hand and with what dignity she could muster, she pulled the torn skirt of her scarlet dress closed over her lap. “Whadyou want?”

Aziraphale took off his helmet. “I–I–” He shook his head. “I don’t understand. What are you doing _here_? I thought you were the Black Knight? Weren’t you off… you know? Fermenting?”

Crowley sat up a little bit, bracing her hand on the root of the tree. “_Fomenting._ M’not a… wossname… winerer. Beerer. Thingie that makes...” She held up her bottle as explanation and shook her hair back from her face. “Got fingers and many pies. In? In many pies?” Her face scrunched up. “Bit messy, that. In the pie. Don’t want fingers in your pies. S’unhygienic.”

“But _here_?” Aziraphale stared around the glade. “This is _Merlin_’s sanctum! He’s on Arthur’s side. _My_ side.” A horrible thought occurred to him. “What did you _do_?”

Crowley got unsteadily to her feet and gave him a baleful look. “Dirty old man got what was coming to him.” She tottered and slapped her hand against the tree. “Didn’t you?”

And that was the moment Aziraphale noticed the sheer amount of miraculous energy that was pulsing underfoot, in the roots of a tree that hadn’t been there before and shouldn’t have been there and was–

Full of wizard!

“Crowley!”

Crowley took a mouthful from the bottle. “_What_?” she demanded irritably. “Don’t look at me. You know how it is. Oh, go up, tempt the humans… blah blah blah…” She reeled away from the tree, her skirts spilling apart, her legs bare and pale in the leaf-mottled sunlight. “Did my job.” She slanted a look over her shoulder, making a face. “He’s a very naughty boy.”

“You _can’t_ go about sealing humans in trees!” Aziraphale protested hotly.

Crowley sniggered. “Oops.” She meandered over and sat on a tree stump and flapped a hand vaguely. “Go on then. Let the randy old goat out. Your great and noble sorcerer, saviour of Camelot.” She snorted. “All good and virtuous and well-behaved, eh?”

What she was saying, what she had done, the state of her dress…

Aziraphale’s heart sank.

If Merlin had– if she hadn’t been able to–

He crossed the clearing, sinking down onto one knee in front of her. “Are you all right?”

Crowley stared at him, then smiled crookedly. “Yeah, angel,” she said, voice softened by the mead she had doubtless been enjoying. “Caught me by surprise, what with the whole ‘noble Merlin’ bollocks.” Her lip curled up showing a flash of teeth. “Not as surprised as he was when…” She waved vaguely towards the tree. “Very emphatic no, that.”

Aziraphale sighed with relief, setting his helmet down on the ground and delicately lifting her skirts back over her lap, smoothing them in place. “I’m very glad, my dear.”

Crowley reached out with her empty hand, brushing her hand along his cheek. “S’that so?”

“No one deserves to be treated like that,” he confirmed with a fervent nod.

Crowley laughed quietly, stroking her thumb up and down his cheek. “Protecting my virtue, angel?” She leaned a little closer, eyes glinting. “Or wanting to make sure no one else wanders into your domain?”

“…my domain?”

Between them, her knees spread, torn skirt falling into the valley between, revealing a glimpse of copper hair and parts of her that Aziraphale had been… ah… very intimately acquainted with.

“That–” He blushed puce. “It isn’t– I hardly think– honestly, I don’t know what you–”

Crowley burst out laughing. “D’you want me to be a bit more… floral?” she said, waggling her eyebrows. “No one else has been wandering in my garden.” She gave his earlobe a playful tug. “You’re the only one who gets to shrumble in my fubbery.” She blinked dopily. “Wait. No. Shr… shrubbery.”

He really ought to have laughed at her slip in hindsight, but Aziraphale couldn’t. Distracted. “The… only one? But you’re–”

“I know, I know,” Crowley grumbled, then mimicked him, “Demon, foul fiend, the enemy, tempter, blah, bla–”

“I was going to say beautiful,” Aziraphale blurted out indignantly.

Crowley’s jaw stopped flapping halfway through another ‘blah’. “Eh?”

Aziraphale hastily clanked back a bit. “Nothing never mind. I oughtn’t have said–”

“You think I’m _pretty_.” Crowley beamed at him.

“Shut up!”

“You _do_.” She swayed forward, sinking her fingers into his hair and pulled him back, the weight of his armour tilting him into her as she planted a clumsy kiss on his lips. His hand skittered on the stump beside her hip and he huffed, though he couldn’t help notice that her eyes, bright and warm and lovely in the diluted sunlight, shone. “You do.”

“You’re drunk, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “I didn’t say– you’re radically misinterpreting–”

Crowley nudged the tip of their noses together and quoted, “’I was going to say beautiful’. Yeah. Radical there. I said pretty instead of–”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he’d tried to shut her up or if she’s swayed back into him again, but their mouths opened to one another and she licked at his lips, flickering two-pronged darts. He groaned, slipping his free arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

The kisses turned into curses and he became increasingly aware of drink-addled fingers yanking at buckles and straps and frustrated little growls tickled on his lips.

“Crowley–”

“Bloody tin can.” Crowley yanked him sideways by the hair and bent to peer, focusing her attention on the strap.

“Excuse me!” he protested, laughing, and sitting back. “You could _ask_.”

She blinked at him, cross-eyed, then launched herself off the stump. He landed on his back with a clatter, a determined demon on top of him, wrestling bits of his armour off and swearing all the while. He couldn’t help chuckling at the single-minded focus she was putting into the task, and wondered how much it would take to distract her.

Conveniently enough, her bare legs were on either side of him and – though he mourned the gloves that prevented skin-to-skin contact – it was easy enough to start tracing idle patterns on them, beginning tamely enough around her knees and winding upwards, like ivy swallowing a ruined tower inch by curling inch.

Every so often, she would reach down and smack his hand.

“Stop it,” she reproached sternly, returning her attention to his buckles. “Am concentrating.”

“So am I,” he retorted, fighting down the temptation to smile into her glower. It didn’t work and his chest shook under her. “You’re not as frightening as you think you are.”

She huffed, sitting back on his chest and folding her arms. “Was going to let you out,” she said. “Don’t think I’ll bother now.”

He gave her thigh a squeeze. “Oh? Your loss.”

After so many years of familiarity, he _should_ have recognised that gleam in her eyes a second before she swung off him and whipped her body around as fast as a cobra. Suddenly, his world was reduced to warm pink flesh, thighs on either side of his head and…

Oh good lord…

She knocked on his breastplate. “F’your going to stay, you’re going to make yourself useful,” she called back, though it was muffled between her legs and her skirts and the distracting sight presented to him.

Aziraphale brought his hands up to squeeze her thighs.

“F’you don’t want to–” The sudden doubt in her tone made him squeeze a little harder and he ran his tongue the length of her Eve’s part, from the nub at the front to the welcoming opening at the back. Crowley made a vague strangled noise and slapped a hand on his armour again. “Right… yeah… that…”

He’d forgotten – as he always did – how much he adored the taste of her. This angle was different, not his position of preference, but no less welcome. He tongued at the peak of her sex, dragging the tip of his nose against the warm folds with every stroke of his tongue. He could feel her grasping and rattling at his armour, and suckled greedily to make her yelp and knock a fist against it again, reverberations rattling through the metal.

“Ow!” Aziraphale dropped his head back, which only made her yelp more. “No! Stay! Ow! Fuck!” Her hand wriggled down, nudging against his chin and his…

“Oh dear…”

“Ngh,” Crowley agreed. “Get it off!”

He shifted one hand, snapping it and miracling off both chainmail and the fabric cap beneath it. Oh, and his quilted gloves for good measure. Just in case. “Sorry, my dear.”

She rocked from side to side on her knees, as if to make sure she was no longer tangled in the mail. “I can see the appeal in getting rid of all the… foliage,” she grumbled.

“All better?” Aziraphale inquired hopefully.

In response, she plopped herself back down onto his greedily waiting mouth and his slid his hands up under the ruin of her dress, cradling her small buttocks and shifting her position to let him lick more hungrily against her, until she was writhing down on him, hissing as his nose nudged against her opening.

“Second hole?” she suggested raspily. “Too?”

Aziraphale drew his head back, gulping in a breath. “Second?” he echoed, sliding one hand in between face and flesh, delving into her with his thumb. “Or both?”

A clatter between his legs suggested she’d dropped something. “Both?”

He stroked again with his thumb until it was slick, glistening with her, then dragged it up to her second hole, stroking around it, then gently, gently sinking into her. And as he did, his other hand squeezed in, until tongue and both thumbs were lavishing her with his attentions, her movements reduced to staggered twitches over him, and – somewhere beyond the warm pink world surrounding him, chainmail rattled and clanked as she clawed at his armour.

A sudden tap against bare skin made him jolt.

Forced him to focus. Attention down. Elsewhere.

“Crowley?” he inquired hoarsely, lips and chin soaked and dripping.

Another tap and oh… oh, she had managed to get into his armour, under his… _oh_.

“Gimme!” Crowley licked the bare skin. “Something! Anything, angel!”

As if he had half a mind to… to…

Right. Yes. He focussed his intent and she gave a happy cry, a skinny hand closing around his Adam’s part a second before she wrapped her mouth and that devilish tongue around it. The happy hum shot down to his toes, his hips lifting as much as armour and the full weight of a demon on his chest would allow.

She made a delighted sound as his part swelled and hardened and he moaned into her, trying to remember how to move hands and tongue and not let the sensation of her mouth on him utterly distract him. She helped matters there, rolling her hips in encouragement, as if she were mounting herself on his part rather than smothering him and his eagerly-licking tongue and fingers.

He tried to match her, stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust, but his world was warm and pink and hot and wet and instinct spurred him, replacing his dripping hand with his mouth and licking into her, as deeply and hungrily as he could.

He stroked, still stroked, thumb rubbing in circles and tracing ancient letters, ancient patterns that made her keen against him, moaning as she opened her jaw unnaturally wide and swallowed him down to the base of his part, throat constricting around him, peristaltic pressure making his eyes roll up. His hips surged and still she swallowed and swallowed until he sagged, boneless beneath her as she ground herself onto his hands and his tongue and followed him into gasping, shuddering pleasure, moaning against his cuisse as his part slipped from between her lips.

Still enclosed under her, he kissed her part gently and stroked at her thighs, the heavy fabric of her skirts dragging against his knuckles. She shifted ever so slightly and the weight on his chest shifted and settled. As if she was making herself comfortable. Relaxing.

“Crowley?”

“Mm?”

“Are you all right?”

“Mm-hm.” Another minute wriggle, then she went still.

Aziraphale patted her thigh. “Crowley? Crowley!”

The damned demon gave a little snore.

Of course. Of _course_. She always got sleepy after drink and coitus.

“Oh for Heaven’s…” Here he was, in Merlin’s glade, in the armour and colours of Camelot no less, his part on display for all the world to see and a sleeping demon curled up on him like a damned great cat, while his face was buried in her nethers. “Crowley!” He jiggled, trying to dislodge her. “_Crowley_!”

He could, he suppose, roll and tip her off. But given how they were tangled…

He prodded her thigh again and when that got a sleepy mutter of protest, he hesitated, then smacked her squarely on the backside.

Crowley yelped and sat up right on his face, then yelped again in surprise and swung her leg off, sitting heavily on the grass beside him. “What was that in aid of?”

He pushed himself up on one arm, rolling to look up at her, all dishevelled and flushed, legs gracelessly splayed, shiny evidence of their misbehaviour glistening on the skin of her thighs, red ridges visible where his armour had pressed into her skin. “You fell asleep on me.”

She blinked at him, then laughed. “S’pose I did,” she agreed, then lifted the hem of her skirt and leaned closer to courteously dab at his cheeks. “Look at the state of you, angel.”

He licked at his lips. “Not entirely my fault.”

She searched his face, then leaned even closer and licked his lips too, then into his mouth, her tongue fluttering against his. The salt tang of his own spend clung to her and he couldn’t help but reach up his other hand, tangling it in her hair, drawing her down over him, kissing her and licking at the taste of them both, mingling on their tongues.

Her lips skimmed his, light and teasing, she nibbled his lower lip as they sank together on the grass, tasting and sipping from one another in heady little mouthfuls. And as their mouths danced, his fingers and hers pulled at buckles and links and cloth and little by little, his armour fell away on the grass and mail slithered into a heap and finally, he was bared under the dappled sunlight.

Crowley sprawled out on the grass on her back and reached down to spread the skirts of her dress in wordless invitation. Aziraphale went willingly, finding her mouth with his as his part – already rehardened from the play of their mouths together – teased against her warmth.

Lean, freckled legs coiled around his hips and Crowley met his eyes as she _pulled_ and buried him inside her, her thighs a delicious trap from which he never wanted to escape. For a long moment, they lay there, simply lay, locked, entwined, then she squeezed her thighs and he moved.

Their mouths teased and met again, skimming as light and softly as air, even as their bodies moved more and more urgently. Crowley made sharp sounds, her nails sinking into his bare back and Aziraphale hissed, lowering his head to kiss at her throat, licking, teasing, sucking, but not–

“Again, angel!” she gasped. “Do it.”

“Crowley–”

Her hips angled against his, dragging stuttered gasp from his throat. “Do it!”

His heart thundered in his ears and he caught her cheek tenderly in his hand, drew her head to the side. The column of her throat was bare and smooth and unsullied and he laid his mouth against it and _bit_.

Crowley howled her pleasure, her hips jolting against his as he sucked against the bite, leaving a dark and purpling mark. He lifted his head, staring at it and Crowley’s breathless moaned “yes!” in his ear and the sight of it on her skin made his own body spasm in satisfaction and startling pleasure, gasped out against her cheek.

He lifted his head, shaken by the intensity of it. “You… you liked that?”

Golden eyes, hazed with pleasure, met his. “Mm.” She dragged up an arm, touched the mark. “Felt bloody amazing.”

Nothing, he thought, compared to the feeling of placing it there and feeling her respond to it.

He dipped his head down, better to hide his expression, brushing his lips over both the mark and her fingertips. “I’m glad,” he whispered.

Her lips brushed his cheek. “Mm-hm.” She gave his hair a gentle tug. “Up.”

He drew apart from her reluctantly, sitting back on his heels. “I suppose we ought not stay,” he said, glancing around for his undergarments among the scatter of mail and armour and clothing. “Merlin has followers, after all.”

“Yeah.” Crowley swayed back upright, knees splayed, debauched and dishevelled, her part still glistening, dripping with his spend. She grinned. “Can I just say you have immeasurably improved a bloody awful day?” She wagged a finger at him. “Very good angeling.”

He laughed, as he pulled his clothing back on. “I’m sure you’re only saying that because you’re a little tipsy, my dear.”

“Well, doesn’t hurt,” Crowley agreed, getting to her feet. She peered down at her dress, then snapped her fingers, the front of it weaving itself back together, serpent patterns coiled around the hem. “Need a hand?”

“Do you even know _how_ to put on armour manually?”

Crowley picked up a rerebrace and peered at it. “Not a bloody clue.” She waved the piece of metal. “Arm-y bit?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “If I tell you which bit, you can put it on, all right?”

It took a good half hour longer than it should have, but eventually, Crowley buckled the last piece in place and stooped to retrieve Aziraphale’s cap and helmet. As he pulled on the cloth cap, she turned over the mail cap in her hands then glowered.

“Ah! Knew it caught one!”

“Pardon?”

She tilted the cap, showing a single curl of copper hair tangled in the mail. “New rule. No chain mail when we… err.”

He fought down a smile. “Of course, my dear.”

Once chain cap and helm were both in place, she stepped back and surveyed him. “Back to Camelot, then?”

He nodded. “I suppose so.”

She ground her teeth, then demanded, “What about him?” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the oak tree. “You came here to see him, didn’t you? Take him back to Artie-boy? D’you need me to let him out?”

Aziraphale glanced at the tree and remembered the look on her face, her torn skirt, the knowledge of what the so-called wise man had tried to do. Perhaps he had been sent with a mission to find Merlin, but given the kind of man Merlin was…

“Why would I want to take a tree to Camelot, dear girl?” He shook his head and sighed. “I came all this way and couldn’t see Merlin anywhere.” Crowley’s eyes went round. “Poor Arthur will be disappointed of course, but it can’t be helped.”

“You– are you– you’re _leaving_ him in there?”

Aziraphale reached out and took her by the shoulders, meeting her eyes. “My dear, you really are getting yourself very confused,” he said gently. “_That_ is a tree. Nothing more. No man or woman could tell you otherwise.” He raised his eyebrows. “Could they?”

One side of Crowley’s mouth curled up. “Yeah,” she agreed, eyes bright. “It’s just a tree. Nothing to see here.” She stepped back and bobbed into a beautiful curtsey. “Sir Aziraphale.”

He bowed in response. “My Lady.” He straightened and turned, striding away before he could change his mind or say anything else. Ahead of him, he could see his horse still waiting, nervous, on the edge of the forest.

And behind him, he heard the sound of someone kicking a tree and smugly saying, “See what you missed? That’s what you could’ve had if you’d been polite.”

Blushing to the roots of his hair, Aziraphale clanked hurriedly back out into daylight.


	11. Lesson 11 - 1020AD

Dozens of slippered feet hurried across the mosaic floors of the palace and out into the sun-dappled courtyard.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a little out of place among them. The ladies were exchanging whispers and giggles, and though Aziraphale had been in their company for several weeks, she still wasn’t quite sure what the giggles were about this time.

The Lady Zoe had heard, as far as the angel knew, that the Emperor had sent an advanced guard ahead of his return.

“What’s all the fuss about?” she inquired in a whisper, tugging the sleeve of the plump black-haired girl – Helena, wasn’t it? – beside her. “If it’s only the advanced guard, why all this fuss?”

“Our lady likes to inspect the guard,” the girl replied, blushing hotly.

“Inspect…” All at once, Aziraphale understood. “Oh good Lord. She’s being… lecherous?”

Helena giggled and smacked Aziraphale’s arm. “Not out loud,” she chastised. “And what’s the harm? She has no husband!”

That much was true, though Aziraphale wondered at why she had been sent to keep the company of a woman who – while born to the purple – was an old maid in her uncle’s court. There had to be some role ahead of her, but whether that included… inspecting the guards, Aziraphale highly doubted it.

“Some order, ladies,” Zoe snapped briskly.

Her woman fell in behind her, the embodiment of demure and modest Christian maidens, as they crossed the courtyard. The guards flanked the yard on both sides and, with a sidelong glance, Aziraphale recognised their armour at once.

The Varangians. All leather and mail and not at all that different from their Viking ancestors.

They were almost at the door at the far end of the courtyard when a shrill appreciative whistle rang out.

Aziraphale whipped around, startled.

The girls behind her stared in worried concern. “Are you all right?”

The angel blinked foolishly at them. “Didn’t you hear–” And as she said it, she saw one of the guards raise a hand and wave, a very familiar snakey grin visible under the decorative eye- and nose-guard of his helm. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She swung around, colour rising in her face, and hurried to catch up with the rest of the group.

“What was that about?” Helena inquired. “I thought you had been stung!”

“Oh! Yes!” Aziraphale laughed brightly. “I– a snake! I thought I heard a snake!”

And, as the women laughed around her, she was relieved to know they would never know how accurate that was. Let them tease her. That was all very well. Even if it made her blush knowing Crowley had seen her… well… like _this_.

She could count the times she had changed to female form on one hand, for some necessary and direct miracles. And yes, there had been one occasion when Crowley _had_ seen her with the various… accoutrements, but in the garb and the role and everything else felt different somehow. Especially in a fashionable sweeping dress and hair – oh it was such a lot of hair.

She would simply have to stay discreetly in the ladies’ court and not get underfoot.

A pity that Crowley didn’t seem to share the sentiments.

Unlike many of the ladies in the court, she had a small private chamber to do her work. What they thought he work was, she couldn’t imagine, but it did mean she could while away the nights with some of the beautiful tomes that were housed in the palace library.

She was seated at her desk, poring over one, when something rattled against the wooden shutters over the window.

“What on earth?” She hurried over to the window, putting her eye to the narrow crack between them.

“Oi!” A shadowy figure several feet below lobbed another rock at the shutter. “Angel! Open up!”

Aziraphale’s hand twitched on the shutter. Oh dear.

“Angel!” Another scatter of pebbles. “I’ll get in trouble if they catch me, sneaking around the women’s quarters!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale groaned, pulling the shutters open and leaning out. “What do you want?” she demanded.

Still in his armour, though without his helmet, he spread his arms. “What could I possibly want?”

She pursed her lips, glaring at him. “Go away! I’ve got very important things to do!”

“Oh yeah?” He grinned. “Like what?”

Aziraphale heard a shout from one of the walls, the voices of the guards. “Oh Lord!” She leaned out over the window-ledge, practically spilling out of her nightgown, and stretched down a hand. “Come here, you idiot!”

Crowley jumped and grabbed her hand and she yanked, wrenching him up and in. He grunted as he landed across the sill and she caught his belt, hauling his kicking legs the rest of the way in through the window. He landed with a clatter on the floor and she slammed the shutters closed, latching them, her hands trembling.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she snapped, turning around to glare at him.

Sprawled on his back on the floor, Crowley stared up at her, eyes wide and uncovered. “Blimey,” he said, shoving himself up. “Look at you.”

“Oh be quiet,” she huffed, folding her arms over her chest. Which made his eyes flick down and she huffed again, folding her arms a little higher. “You’re clearly drunk and you could get both of us in a lot of trouble.”

“M’not drunk!”

She raise an eyebrow.

“M’only tipsy!” He winced and she felt the miracle as he sobered up. “There! All sober!”

“That still doesn’t explain what the hell you’re doing here,” she snapped, snatching her shawl from the back of her chair and pulling around her shoulders. Of all the times to be caught in a thin linen nightgown…

Crowley grinned, leaning back on his hand. “Really? Emperor of this place off triggering wars all over the place and you don’t know what I could be doing here?” He cocked his head. “Could ask what you’re doing here. That flock of little birds you were with earlier reeked of lust.”

Aziraphale fidgeted with her shawl. “You know how it is,” she said, shifting from one foot to the other. She wanted to sit down, but he was blocking the chair and the only other option was the bed, and she really didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. “Orders.”

“And,” Crowley sighed dramatically, “here we are, getting in each other’s way again.”

The angel picked at a loose thread. “Yes,” she agreed quietly. “It…” She hesitated, then glanced at him. “You’re only here on orders?”

“Don’t worry.” He swayed his booted feet from side to side. “I’m not following you.”

How very odd that the confirmation was almost a little… disappointing.

She stepped over him, nudging him aside with her foot, and sat back down on her stool. “You look absurd, you know.”

The demon laughed. “Bollocks. I look dashing.” He rapped his knuckles on his leather breastplate. A scarlet snake coiled down the middle of it. “Prefer this to the plate stuff, although…” He tilted his head one way, then the other and winced. “Ah, yeah. There it is.”

And at once, she spotted a strand of hair caught in the edge of his chainmail undershirt.

And immediately, a memory crept quickly after it.

A grove, quite some time ago. Laid out on the grass, lost in a world of soft pink flesh. They’d seen each other several times since then, but… but…

“You look nice.” Crowley’s voice cut across her train of thought.

Aziraphale flushed. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she mumbled, hugging her shawl closer. “I look absurd.”

“No you don’t.” He propped his arm on her knee. “Different, yeah, but s’not bad.”

She slanted her eyes towards the window, trying to ignore the rising blush. “It doesn’t feel quite right,” she admitted. “I mean, the physical parts are… I’ve used them before. That’s all well and good, but I feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes.”

A little more weight on her knee made her look around to find Crowley with his chin resting on his arm on her thigh. “You’re undercover, angel. That’s all this is. A disguise.” He grinned crookedly. “It’s not like I’m a bloody Varangian, is it?”

Aziraphale’s expression softened, just a little. “Well, you _do_ look the part.”

“And you’re a pretty convincing lady of the Byzantine court,” he replied, gliding his fingertip back and forth in the valley of her nightgown as it dipped between her knees. He clicked his tongue. “Bit scandalous, lady like you, caught with a Varangian guard in her room.”

“Oh, Crowley, don’t be silly.”

“Don’t need to be Crowley,” he suggested, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Could be Ragnar, here to seduce the lovely…” He raised his eyebrows inquiringly and Aziraphale stared at him, bewildered. “A name, angel. Give me a human name for you?”

“Um…” Aziraphale pinked. “I-I supposed Theodora is quite popular.”

He rolled onto his knees. “And would Theodora let a rascal like Ragnar into her rooms?”

Aziraphale’s heart gave a little flutter. “Oh, this is nonsense,” she protested. “You can’t be suggesting… I mean…”

Crowley braced both his forearms on her thighs, the leather and metal against her skin through the thin fabric of the nightgown sending a peculiar thrill through her. “Bit of fun, angel,” he said fondly. “Could come in through the door. Make it like a proper seduction. Just two humans doing a human thing in a human way.”

She stared at him, searching his face, and reached out to outline his cheek with her fingertips. Her whole life sometimes felt like a role to play when she set foot on the stage in Heaven: good, obedient and utterly compliant little angel, uncomplaining and never protesting despite all the dreadful things she was made to witness.

Would it be so terrible to pretend to be someone else, just for a little while? To… not think about it or worry about it?

“Or we could just be us,” Crowley added. “Whatever you fancy.”

That was the rub, wasn’t it? Having what _she_ wanted.

“Can…” She wet her lips. “Can you wait outside for a moment?”

Crowley’s eyes danced. “As long as you like,” he said, clattering to his feet, then paused, “Only not too long, because I’ve heard they don’t like man-shaped people in the halls. Don’t want them turning me eunuch, do you?”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “You can do it very well yourself,” she pointed out.

“Yup! Just suck it all in and confuse the living daylights out of them.” He headed for the door, unlatching it and grinning at her before stepping out into the lamp-dim gloom of the hall.

The angel remained where she was for a moment. This… this very idea was ridiculous, but then, everything they had ever done with each other was too. By rights, they should never be anywhere near each other. By rights, they should hurt and destroy each other, and instead, there was mirth and playfulness and _fun_.

She knew she ought not to enjoy it, and yet, every time, she _did_.

She rubbed her hands on her thighs, then turned, groping for the small polished mirror. Her hair, she had bundled into a snood to keep it out of the way, but she had a feeling Crowley might appreciate it loose. Especially if she was meant to be playing a lady disturbed at her slumbers. Unpinning the cap, she let the pale curls spill around her shoulders, and then got up and hurried over to the door.

“Is someone there?” It sounded awfully theatrical, trying to act innocent and surprised.

Fingertips tapped a tattoo on the door. “There is,” Crowley purred. “Open up, my lady.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks were growing warmer. Oh, this was dreadfully silly, but she couldn’t stop herself smiling because of it. “You shouldn’t be here, you naughty man.”

Crowley snorted. “Naughty?” he echoed in his own voice.

“Well, what would you call it?” Aziraphale countered, trying not to laugh herself. “You’re a naughty, naughty man, sneaking about these halls.”

“Then you’d better let me in, my lady, before I get caught.” The handle of the door shifted against her belly. “Be merciful, my lady. You know what they’d do to me, if I was caught.” He pressed the door open a crack, a golden eye visible in the gap. “You’d have me lose my manhood?”

She had to look away to keep from giggling. “Oh, well, we wouldn’t want that.” She stepped back, opening the door, and _did_ dissolve into helpless laughter as he strutted in, mimicking one of the other guards she’d seen in the courtyard.

He swept into an over-the-top bow. “Your kindness, my lady, should be rewarded.”

She shut the door, sliding the latch, and turned to face him. “No need to thank me, good sir. It was nothing more than my Christian duty.”

He raised his eyes from the floor and froze there, blinking. “Ngh?”

Aziraphale fidgeted self-consciously. “Um. Is something the matter? Crowley?”

Abruptly, Crowley closed the gap between them and she backed up a step, startled. The door pressed hard against her back, and his eyes were dark and golden, barely lit by the light of her single lamp.

“Oh, you look…” He took a shuddering breath. “In Thor’s name…”

“Actually, I don’t think the Varangians still worsh–”

Crowley’s lips pressed to hers.

Aziraphale made a soft, pleased sound, leaning into the kiss, then remembered the game they were _meant_ to be playing. “Oh, sir! No!” She pushed weakly at his chest. “That– we _can’t_. If anyone found out… it’s too dangerous!”

He slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against the armour and oh good _lord_, the texture of the coarse leather rubbing against the sensitive peaks of her breasts through her linen nightgown was unimaginably delicious.

“I’m a Varangian, my lady,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her throat and below her ear. “I have no fear of danger.” He slid one foot forward, pushing her thighs apart and oh sweet Heaven, the lower pressure was somehow as delightful as the upper.

“I shouldn’t,” she protested, though her fingers had somehow found their way into his hair, guiding his lips downwards.

“Nor I,” he agreed in a murmur against her throat. “Love is a mighty force.”

Aziraphale startled, eyes widening. “L-love?”

A flicker of a tongue curling along the shell of her ear made her shiver. “For my fair lady.”

“O-oh yes. Lady.” Another sharp gasp eked out when he shifted his thigh, rubbing it against her Eve’s part. “Oh! That– I– oh!”

He kissed her throat softly, one hand sinking into her hair and drawing her head to the side. As he rolled his thigh against her again and again, his mouth moved downwards and Aziraphale was mortified by the kittenish mewling sounds she made as his teeth raked the junction of neck and shoulder, nibbling smooth bare skin.

“Please,” she gasped, fingers tugging at his hair, and guided him lower still.

His chuckle vibrated against her skin as his lips moved downwards, skirting the collar of her nightgown. The ties hung loose and it scarcely covered her bosom, draping open. Mutely, she tugged him to one side, to the place where one rosy nipple peaked beneath the pale linen. He met her eyes, then latched onto her, sending stars flashing behind her eyes as he suckled greedily, her whole body arching into his lips.

When he drew back – both thigh and lips – she made a sound of protest that died in a low moan as he blew a chilly breath over the now-damp cloth, her nipple aching. She couldn’t help bringing her free hand up, splaying her fingers around it and kneading.

“Again,” she implored, panting, tugging his head to her other breast.

“As my lady commands,” he breathed, sounding as shaken as she did. His hand splayed on her back, fingers pressing deep and he drew her other nipple into his mouth. The sensation was electrifying, her fingers squeezing urgently at her other breast.

“Oh!” She groaned out as he did the… the… oh, the things with his tongue. “Y-you brute!”

He laughed. “That I am.” He dragged both hands from her back and her hair, taking her by the hips and pressing her back against the door. “I’ll have you, my lady.”

“You _wicked_ man,” she breathed, staring into those lovely, laughing, golden eyes. Then squeaked when cold metal slid down the expose skin between her swaying breasts. “Crowley!”

“Not Crowley,” he replied, looking downwards. She followed his stare, her heart drumming as a razor-sharp dagger cut into her nightgown. He raised his eyes back to hers and dropped to his knees, dragging the blade down and splitting the nightgown from neck to navel.

“Oh!” she squeaked, clasping her hands to her chest, instinct seeking modesty.

“Ah!” The dagger clattered to the floor as he caught her wrists, pinning them back against the door. “None of that.” He nosed the cloth open, and oh, _yes_, his tongue flickered tantalisingly across her exposed nipple. She squirmed to at least pretend some resistance and oh, oh dear, her nightgown slithered off her shoulders and down her arms, leaving her pinned and exposed.

“Nghhh!” Crowley stared up at her, then dropped his forehead to rest against her belly. “Jesus Christ, angel!”

Aziraphale glowed with delight. Oh how lovely to make him break character. “Theodora,” she corrected, “you silly, naughty soldier!” She hesitated, then wrenched a hand free and slapped him lightly, which made his eyes pop even wider. “How dare you take our Lord’s name in vain.”

He bared his teeth in a grin. “Oh, I’ll have you screaming more than that before I’m done,” he growled, lunging up and capturing her nipple again. Aziraphale sank her fingers back into his hair with a pleased sigh that turned into a full-bodied groan when he let go her other wrist and his thumb teased over her other nipple, stroking and pinching it to hardness.

She threaded her fingers back into his hair, squirming. “You’re a terrible, terrible person,” she insisted, trying her utmost to sound convincing even when every breath hitched in her throat and her hips kept lifting against his chest.

“Oh, I _am_,” he murmured, then pressed his mouth to her belly and she squealed as he sucked a rosy bruise into the soft skin. Crowley shot to his feet, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Hush now, my lady,” he breathed, his other hand slithering down over her belly. “We don’t want to be… interrupted do we?”

She mumbled a protest against his hand, then groaned into his palm as his hand – warm and heavy – pressed between her legs, the fine fabric no barrier at all.

His golden eyes bored into hers. “Like that?” he murmured, jolting when she grasped his wrist and pressed his fingers more firmly against her sopping part. “Oh, you saucy wench.”

“Wench?” Aziraphale huffed indignantly into his palm.

“Trollop, even,” Crowley purred, fingering her slowly through the fabric. “Spreading your legs for a filthy soldier like me.” He thrummed his thumb across the bud at the peak of her sex, stroking slow and firm, then in increasingly stuttering strokes that made Aziraphale keen behind his hand, her hips rocking urgently against his hand. “Oh fucking hell…”

Abruptly, his hands weren’t on her and she felt back against the door, panting, with time enough to catch a breath before he was on his knees, shoving her nightgown up and burying his face between her splayed, shimmering thighs.

“Ngah!” Aziraphale cried out, grabbing his hair with both hands, as his tongue laved at her. With the door solid at her back, she flung a leg over his shoulder, urging him closer and almost sobbed aloud when that clever, skilful tongue squirmed inside her. His mouth moved again, dragging licks back to the peak of her sex and without warning, two fingers thrust into her body. “Oh!”

Crowley made a hungry sound, sucking and licking at the thrumming cluster of nerves. She couldn’t have stayed still, even if she wanted to, gasping and rutting against his face and his hand. His fingers shifted, moved, and she cried out again when slickened fingers sought out her second hole, and his tongue returned, filling her in every way, his nose rubbed and pressing and grinding and– and– and–

The gush of liquid startled them both, Crowley giving a sputtering cough, but before she could ask– speak– think– he was licking again, as if he was drinking in every drop that had come from her as he legs gave way and she sagged down the back of the door, only held up by his hands and his mouth. 

Thrumming, she stared at him, hands shaking in his hair, until he back up and gently, gently lowered her to the floor, leaving her empty and aching, every nerve aflame.

Without a word, he shucked off his armour. By hand too, she thought, gazing at him with dazed pleasure. Eyes on her. Never leaving her. Leather plate. Chain mail. Shirt. Tunic. A wordless promise of what was to come, giving her ample opportunity to protest, but equally ample opportunity to appreciate those clever hands, still slick with her spend and shaking as much as she was.

Finally, _finally_, he was bare from the waist up and the hardness of his Adam’s part jutted out against his breeches.

“I will have you, my lady,” he murmured, grasping her splayed ankles.

Were they still playing? If they were, what would–

“Oh no,” she gasped, giving the feeblest of kicks. “No, have mercy you… you… foul vagabond!”

Crowley’s gave a muffled snort. “Vagabond?” he echoed.

Aziraphale made a face at him, her face flushing as his fingers curled and stroked around her ankles. “V-very well! You… you bastard!”

The demon glowed in pleasure. “You want it, my lady,” he growled and oh, the heat in his expression made Aziraphale squirm for entirely different reasons. He tightened his grip, dragging her closer, hands sliding up her legs with every inch. “I know you do.”

With his hands skimming the back of her thighs, and the heat and coarseness of the front of his trousers barely a finger’s breadth away, she tried to gather her wits. “Never, you… you…” He rocked against her and she moaned. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Crowley! Just put it in me already!”

Crowley’s face turned pink, his mouth opening and shutting. Hastily, he groped between their bodies, and with a jerk of his hips, he sank himself into her body, their parts slipping together as neatly as a key into lock.

Aziraphale keened in pleasure, wrapping her legs around him and pulling him deeper, as he braced himself over her. “Oh, _yes_.”

“Christ, angel…” Crowley stared down at her wide-eyed, his hair a tousled mess around his face. “Look at you…”

“Mm.” She rolled her hips up against his, biting her lower lip. Oh, she always forgot how deep-seated the pleasure could be in this form, and when he started to move against her, the contraction of serpentine muscles beneath sleek skin she tightened her thighs with a shrill gasp.

Crowley’s mouth crushed down on hers then, his tongue teasing between her lips, salt with the taste of her and thrust as greedily as his hips. The coarse hair of his chest raked across nipples already achingly sensitive and she half-sobbed into his mouth as the pleasure crested again.

And oh, he knew her so well, knew enough to slip a hand between their urgently rutting bodies, find that place with his thumb, stroking and pressure and rubbing until she shuddered under him again and cried out and words and thoughts and all else scattered asunder.

Her fingers slipped and slithered on his sweat-slick back, pooling at the curve of his spine, curving, catching his backside. Though limp and spent, she squeezed, urging him on, his brow pressing to hers as he panted and groaned and buried himself as deep in her as humanly possible, the slick heat of his spend mingling with hers.

He sagged over her, both of them breathing one another in, his arms giving way as he all but collapsed on top of her.

“Fuck me…” he moaned into her throat.

She dragged a trembling hand up his back to smooth his damp hair from his shoulders. “Mm.” She gave her hips a gentle roll against him, basking in the shuddering sigh that poured out against her shoulder, between slow, lazy, wet kisses.

Little by little, his mouth returned to hers, following a trail of butterfly kisses, and with visible reluctance, he drew back. His Adam’s part slipped free, still wet with their fluids, and he sat back on his heels, stroking her thighs as she propped herself up on her elbows.

“Wish I could get a picture of you like this,” he said, one thumb following the crease of her hip.

Aziraphale smiled crookedly, looking down at herself. Her torn nightgown was rucked up and tattered over her waist and hips, her belly peppered with love-bites, her nipples still rosy and peaked. To say nothing of the nest of fair curls at the apex of her thighs utterly slicked and shimmering as if speckled with tiny crystals. “I must look a state.”

“You look _amazing_,” Crowley said, the awed admiration in his voice enough to make her bite down on any demurral. One side of his mouth crooked up. “But it’s not as if I can call in the court artist in, is it? Let’s have a mosaic made of Lady Theodora’s glorious snatch.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale knocked him on the hip, laughing. “Must you be so crude?”

“Coming from Lady ‘put it in me already!’?”

She pushed herself up to sit, wincing a little as still tender parts rubbed on cloth and stone. “Don’t be facetious, darling.”

He leaned forward and kissed her firmly on the end of her nose. “You’d miss it if I wasn’t.” He tottered to his feet, then offered her his hands. “Come on. Let’s get you onto a softer surface.”

She hauled herself upright, leaning against him as they swayed over to the bed. “Take those awful breeches off,” she ordered as she crawled under the covers. His bemused silence made her glance back. “What?”

“I’m staying?”

She gave him a look. “Well, it would be dreadfully rude to turn you out now, wouldn’t it?” She lifted the sheet up. “Breeches off and in you get.”

Crowley wriggled out of the scratchy trousers at once and tucked himself in beside her, their legs tangling together on the narrow bed. “This is going to be a bit distracting,” he observed, cupping one of her breasts in his hand.

“I expect so,” Aziraphale murmured, watching his thumb as he gently stroked the nipple again. “Crowley?”

“Mm.”

“Do you ever find it strange we end up in the same place so often?”

He raised his eyes to hers. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? No point sending us somewhere where there’s no one to thwart.” He shifted a little closer, squirming happily when she curled her thigh over his hip. “I mean, s’a bit of a waste of time for both of us, me lighting a fire and you putting it out and vice versa, but that’s what we do.”

“I suppose,” she murmured, reaching down between them to arrange his part to rest nice and neatly against her other thigh. Stroked it once or twice for good measure and was gratified to feel the first twitch of interest. “It’s very frustrating, you know.”

“Hm?”

“Knowing it’s a zero-sum result.”

“Mm.”

“Are you listening to me?”

Hazy golden eyes peered at her. “Sort of.” He shifted his hips and the twitch of interest definitely held the promise of more. “You’re being distracting.”

She gave him a look, pursing her lips. “I’m saying I think we should revisit your suggestion.”

“Suggestion?” He frowned. “The… pretending thing?”

Aziraphale worried her lip, then shook her head. It was a topic he’d broached centuries ago now, and she’d been considering it for a long while. Ever since he’d made the allusion. It had seemed reckless and nonsensical, but with Heaven showing little to no interest in them and both of them being dragged hither and yon and–

Crowley cupped her cheek. “Angel,” he said gently. “What are you thinking?”

She couldn’t look him in the eyes as she said it. “Some time ago you suggested… one of us does the work instead of both of us.”

It took him a moment, but she heard the indrawn breath as he understood. “Oh. Right.” His thumb grazed her cheek. “You… do you want to? I mean, we could do a trial run? See how it goes? And if you don’t want to keep doing it, we could stop?”

She forced her eyes to meet his. “We would have to have some kind of arrangement in place,” she said quietly. “We have to be _careful_. Strict rules. Boundaries. Nothing too excessive on either part. Zero sum.” She searched his face. “Crowley, I would have to trust you not to– to do– to–”

He kissed her softly. “Whatever you need, angel,” he agreed. “I don’t want to get in trouble any more than you do.” He stroked his fingers through her hair, coiling the long curls around his fingers. “I’ll watch your back and you’ll watch mine.” He smiled. “Mutually beneficial, yeah?”

Aziraphale felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Working _with_ someone, instead of helplessly, wearily following orders on her own. And if Crowley could – would – perform miracles and blessings…

She swayed into him, kissing him again, his lips parting eagerly to her tongue. She made a happy sound, tangling her fingers back into his hair and drawing him over her, their bodies warm and writhing together again. As he rocked against her again, she dipped one hand between them, stroking him to hardness.

“Mutually beneficial?” he teased against her lips, as she stifled a snort of amusement.

“Oh, do shut up,” she retorted, guiding him to her Eve’s part, and moaning into his mouth as he sank back into her much used and very slick and wet body again.

The squelching sound was quite something and the both burst into helpless laughter.

“Maybe should have cleaned up first,” he suggested, wrinkling his nose.

She wrapped her legs around him again, pulling him deeper, squelching notwithstanding. “Later.”

He looked down at her, a strangely soft expression on his face. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Later.” And he claimed her mouth and took her again, golden and warm in the lamplight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this falls within book canon - 1020AD. And I set it in Constantinople, because I loved the idea of femme Aziraphale in the gorgeousness of the Byzantine clothing.


	12. Lesson 12 - 1601AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advanced notice of some mild...erm... disciplining. But not really. Because these guys are soft as butter for each other.

Despite the poor showing, Aziraphale had to admit the play was a delight.

A bit of morality in drama was no bad thing and he said as much to dear William, although the man had not seemed entirely convinced, but if Crowley did as he had promised, then by the time Aziraphale returned from Edinburgh, the company would be playing to a full house.

Maybe then, they could attend a full performance. Discreetly, of course.

He trotted towards the gates and into the gloom of the round, the boards of the darker hallways creaking underfoot. The rectangle of the exit shone ahead and he brushed flecks of grape stalk from his doublet as he ambled towards it.

“Hsst!”

Aziraphale paused, frowning. “Is someone there?”

One of the doors that led to the upper circle squeaked open. “In here!”

The angel squinted in the gloom. “I don’t tend to rush into dark places with strangers, thank you very much.”

The door opened a little wider, light shining on an exasperated demon and glinting on his small, dark spectacles.

“Oh!” Aziraphale glanced around hastily, then dashed over. “I thought you’d gone!”

Crowley pressed back behind the door to let him squeeze into the narrow stairway, then wedged the door shut behind him. “And I didn’t think you’d stay for the whole thing,” he retorted. “I was waiting somewhere less obvious.”

“But we’ve already–” The angel drew a sharp breath when a long hand pressed against the front of his hose. “_Oh_.”

Crowley’s upper lip peeled back from his teeth as he crowded Aziraphale back against the wall. “Tossing you for Edinburgh.”

Outside in the corridor, there were shuffling footsteps.

“Crowley, we–”

“We’ll have to be quiet,” the demon breathed. “Call it a little something to see you on your way.” His nimble fingers wriggled between Aziraphale’s doublet and hose, then downwards, easing between fabric and skin. He gave a small chuff of laughter then, in the most wicked of impressions, leaned close and whispered, “can you give us more to work with?”

“Oh, _really_!” Aziraphale groaned, though obligingly let Adam’s part fill the demon’s hand.

The demon chuckled against his ear, nuzzling then nipping the lobe. “Don’t think I didn’t notice, angel,” he murmured, curling his fingers around Aziraphale’s part. “Fawning over our sweet William, weren’t you?”

Aziraphale huffed. “You’re hardly putting me in the mood, being jealous.”

Crowley’s teeth tugged gently on his earlobe, then his serpent’s tongue flickered sensuously against it, delving in. “Not jealous,” he murmured, sliding his hand downwards and – oh! – stroking two fingers behind the part, teasing gently. “I like seeing you get excited.”

“I-I know.”

“Do you?” His eyes were invisible in the gloomy half-light, but Aziraphale could still feel them fixed on him as Crowley started stroking his hand. Slowly and barely brushing, more teasing then anything.

He always watched, Aziraphale thought, staring back at him. Whenever they met, whatever they did, always watching. The thought made his heart stutter as teasing fingertips skirted the head of his part and trailed back to the root of it, barely any contact, but knowing Crowley was _watching_ him, enjoyed watching him, made his cheeks flush and he bit at his lip as the pang of want ran through him.

“There you are,” Crowley murmured.

A clatter from outside made Aziraphale jump, but before he could cry out, Crowley’s lips were on his and he pressed back against the wall behind him. Crowley’s tongue darted against his lips and gently invaded his mouth, teasing against his, even as Crowley slid one foot between Aziraphale’s, nudging her further apart, pressing their bodies into even closer proximity.

“Mm,” Aziraphale managed between greedy, licking kisses. He groped out, catching the plush velvet of Crowley’s hose, dragging him to press to the angel’s thigh. Or at least much as their ridiculously outsized clothing would allow.

“Nah, angel.” Crowley’s lips slithered away, across his cheek to his ear. “Just for you this time.” He snapped the fingers of his other hand and the dry strokes became slicker and smoother and Aziraphale made a wounded cry as Crowley’s grip tightened just as his tongue snaked wickedly into Aziraphale’s ear.

He shifted his feet, pulling Crowley closer again, the demon’s beard rasping against his throat. “I like you to–” A kiss smothered his words, even as his hips tilted into Crowley’s knowing grip, making him shudder with each long, familiar stroke. “Crowley, you don’t need–”

Crowley’s tongue teased into his mouth again and Aziraphale shuddered pleasantly as the demon pressed closer. Only not for himself, it seemed. Only to slip his other hand down, slick and smooth as the first, and laugh in delight as he found Aziraphale’s second hole.

“Oh!”

The tip of Crowley’s nose brushed his. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale nodded, eyes fluttering shut with pleasure as fingers curled inside him. Oh, it had been a long while since they’d indulged in that particular pleasure. “That… that’s _delicious_…”

Crowley’s laugh washed warmly against his lips. “Feels pretty good to me too,” he murmured, crooking his fingers and sending stars off behind Aziraphale’s eyes. He nuzzled his way along Aziraphale’s jaw, both hands moving. Aziraphale could only clutch at his sides, rocking on the eddies of pleasure, both front and back, the push and the pull and the delicious slick heat of Crowley’s fingers.

“That… oh…” He knocked his temple against Crowley’s, shivering pleasantly as the demon’s beard tickled his throat.

“Next time,” Crowley growled, tightening his grip. “No buggering ruff.”

Aziraphale laughed breathlessly. “But it’s stylish.”

“It’s in the way is what it is,” Crowley complain fondly and bit his earlobe.

“Ooh!”

“Sh, sh, sh,” Crowley soothed, nuzzling at the corner of his jaw. “Quiet now, angel. Don’t want anyone… coming upon us.”

Aziraphale snorted, knocking his cheek against the demon’s. “Idiot,” he huffed, then groaned as Crowley curled both hands in wicked ways, making his whole body stutter and jolt. “Oh! I’m–”

Lips stifled his as Crowley stroked and caressed and drove wildfire through Aziraphale’s body, until his hips jolted again and again and he spent himself all over Crowley’s palm, his gasps swallowed up by Crowley’s kisses.

He sagged back against the wall, legs quivering under him, and Crowley’s fingers eased their gentle barrage of his senses.

“Peace,” the demon murmured, lips ghosting back and forth across his, “who comes here?”

Aziraphale tried his very best not to laugh, but it still escaped, though a little more breathless than usual. “You _listened_! I knew you liked it.”

Crowley nudged the tips of their noses together. “Course I listened? What else was I going to do? Sit and mope on the steps and do bugger all?” He eased his hand out the front of Aziraphale’s hose, fingers slick and shimmering. He considered them, then – oh what a lovely blush spread on his cheeks – offered them to Aziraphale like a Priest offering the host.

Fixing his eyes on Crowley’s glasses, Aziraphale wrapped his lips around Crowley’s forefinger, sucking it into his mouth. Crowley’s blush intensified, his sharp teeth catching his lip as he slowly thrust his finger against Aziraphale’s greedy tongue. He pressed another fingertip and Aziraphale greedily opened his mouth wider, watching Crowley’s flushing features as hungrily as he knew Crowley was watching him.

The angel slipped his hand up Crowley’s forearm, guiding it so he could shift to the still-sullied fingers, humming in pleasure as he licked and sucked his spend from them. And Crowley’s other hand clutched urgently at his backside as the demon – belatedly – rocked his hips against the dense, texture fabric of Aziraphale’s hose.

Turn about, Aziraphale thought with satisfaction as he swirled his tongue in coils on Crowley’s palm and _bit_ the heel of his hand. Crowley hissed through his teeth and threw his head back with a low groan as Aziraphale pushed his thigh up, press-rubbing against him.

It didn’t take much, not when Crowley was already flushed and rutting urgently. Holding his eyes, Aziraphale pushed up Crowley’s cuff and placed a bruising bite on the paper-thin skin at the inside of his wrist. Crowley ‘s whole body quivered as if struck by lightning and from the shuttling of his hips and little grunt, spent himself all over the inside of his lovely velvet hose.

“Ngggh!” he groaned, knocking his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “Didn’t have to–”

“I know,” Aziraphale kissed his palm, “but I do rather like seeing you get excited about something as well.”

“Nghhhh!” Crowley declared emphatically, pulling back and withdrawing his hands. “Was gonna say you could pay me back when you get back.”

Aziraphale reached up, smoothing his beard. “That isn’t off the table. Where?”

One side of Crowley’s mouth turned up. “You insatiable bastard,” he grumbled fondly.

“Says the demon who loitered for the purpose,” Aziraphale retorted, cleaning himself up with a snap of his fingers and adjusting his tunic. “So?”

“Black Bull. Holborn.”

Aziraphale leaned up to kiss him. “Was that so hard?”

“No,” Crowley acknowledged, his grin returning as he pulled the door open a crack and peeped out, “but it will be.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.”

Still sniggering, the demon opened the door a little wider and slithered out.

________________________________

Rain beat down on the thatch, dripping in streams into the gutters below and washing away the mess of the day. Aziraphale drew his cloak more snugly around him as he hurried down the street, shoes tapping on the cobbles.

It probably would have been quicker to retain the horse, but frankly, sitting on it for another moment sounded like torture.

He hurried into the inn, unsurprised for find it packed to the rafters with people sheltering from the miserable weather, the air stale with tobacco smoke and too many damp, sweating bodies crammed into a small space.

Aziraphale glanced about, then trotted towards the stairs, following the presence of the only demon in the building. He pushed back the hood of his cloak as he ascended, unpinning it at his throat and swinging the damp fabric from his shoulders.

On any other occasion, he would have knocked, but this time?

Oh, no, this time, he marched in as if he owned the place.

The room was quiet and gloomy, lit by a single candle on the stool beside the bed. Crowley’s glasses lay, folded neatly, beside it. The demon himself was sprawled out on the bed, tunic and hose gone and the only concession to modesty the thin shirt that gaped loosely at once shoulder and left his legs bare and exposed.

Aziraphale paused by the door, cloak in hand.

It was a quite beautiful tableau, almost enough to make him forget about the cold and the damp and his aching backside.

“M’not a painting,” Crowley grumbled, cracking one eye open. “Shut the door. S’a draught.”

Aziraphale obliged, closing the door behind him. He hung his cloak on the hook on the back, then stepped out of his soiled shoes and padded across the floor, the floorboards creaking quietly underfoot. “You look very comfortable there, my dear.”

“Mm.” Crowley rubbed his cheek against his folded arms. “S’pissing down.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale sat down on the very edge of the bed. “I’m well aware.”

“Still came to pay me back?” The visible side of his mouth crooked up.

Aziraphale nodded, laying his hand lightly on the back of Crowley’s exposed knee. “You could say that,” he murmured, stroking his fingers lightly in circles.

Crowley wriggled, a prickle of power accompanying the telltale shifting of his body.

“Both jobs went very smoothly,” the angel continued, sliding his hand upwards, the fabric folding in bunches as he exposed more pale ginger-fluffed skin to his wandering hand. “Easy temptation and all that.”

“S’good.”

“I thought so.” Aziraphale ran his thumb under the shallow curve of Crowley’s small buttock. “Had a little time in the city as well.”

“Ngh?”

He pushed Crowley’s shirt up to spill over his back, then pressed a broad, rain-cooled hand against the demon’s buttocks. “Do you know what I found out?”

Crowley gave a demanding squirm. “What?”

“There was a gentleman picked up by an innkeeper for gambling,” Aziraphale murmured, stroking his hand in slow circles. “And do you know, it turns out one can make a coin that has the same symbol on both sides so one can _cheat_?”

Crowley’s eye popped open. “Er.”

Unable to restrain himself, Aziraphale smacked him sharply on the backside. “I _knew_ it!”

Crowley yelped in breathless surprise, scrabbling out from under Aziraphale’s hand.” Oi!”

“It’s only fair!” Aziraphale retorted, grabbing Crowley by the ankle and hauling him back towards him. “My backside is black and blue and if you cheated, then you deserve to have some of the punishment!”

“I’m a demon!” Crowley protested, squirming and kicking – although not as much as Aziraphale might have expected. In fact, considerably less. And there was a significantly larger swell at the front of his shirt too.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale said, grabbing both of his legs in an iron grip. “I’ll just have to smite you, won’t I?” He yanked mercilessly and folded Crowley facedown over his knee, pinning him there with one hand flat on his back. “A lesson much be learned!”

“Angel!” Crowley batted unconvincingly at Aziraphale’s legs, then grunted as Aziraphale pressed him down more firmly and ran his other hand over the demon’s exposed backside. “I’m afraid I have no choice,” he said, running his hand in a light circle. “You’ve been very bad.”

“Don’t you dare–”

The crack of a palm to skin was echoed by Crowley’s yowl, his hips leaping forward and Aziraphale flushed at the press of a rock-hard Adam’s part against his thigh, even through the folds and layers of his hose. Crowley snared the angel’s ankle, clinging to it with bruising force.

“Fffff…”

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered and he stroked another circle, and then–

Smack.

The guttural grunt that Crowley gave shot straight from Aziraphale’s ears to his nethers and with a shiver, he manifested an Adam’s part as well. Another smack, another shuddering rut against his thigh, and his own part stirred demandingly.

“Are you sorry yet?” Aziraphale managed to say through dry lips.

“Nnnggh.” Crowley writhed, rolling the tip of himself against Aziraphale’s thigh. “Nope. Never.”

The sharp smack was enough to make Aziraphale’s palm sting and he swallowed hard at the sight of the rosy imprint on Crowley’s small, round arse cheek. And Lord, Crowley must have noticed the jut of Aziraphale’s sex against his side, because he punctuated his rolling hips with the sideways press of his ribs.

“Izzat all you’ve got?” the demon demanded hoarsely, kneading at his ankle.

Oh, it ought not to have felt so charged and thrilling, but Aziraphale’s whole body was thrumming as he smacked Crowley’s bottom again and again, until the demon was squirming and panting, his buttocks a lovely shade of pink.

And when Crowley was huffing raggedly into the side of Aziraphale’s hose, the angel stuck two of his fingers in his mouth, sucking and slathering them with spit, then traced them – shiny and wet – down the crease of Crowley’s flushed backside.

“Ngh!” Crowley keened, rocking shamelessly.

“Do you think you deserve this?” Aziraphale inquired, mesmerised by the ruddy glow suffusing every inch of the demon’s skin.

“Angel!” Crowley wailed, clawing at his ankle. “C’mon!”

It felt tremendously naughty, but there was something delightful about having Crowley so pliant and receptive and greedy under his hands. He leaned down over the demon and breathed close to his ear, “I’ll put them in and you will finish yourself off on them.”

Crowley gave a faint, urgent moan, pushing back and with barely any pressure at all, both sopping fingers slid into Crowley’s body, his hips juddering erratically as he rutted and ground himself between the textured folds of Aziraphale’s hose and against his fingers, spending himself with an explosive cry.

Aziraphale’s breath escaped in a rush as Crowley all but crumpled over his lap, then slithered off as smoothly as a snake. He whipped around, pushing Aziraphale’s tunic up and reaching for his hose, easily liberating Aziraphale’s aching part.

“I want–”

“Ah!” Aziraphale caught his wrists, meeting his eyes. “You don’t get to want, darling.”

Crowley hissed. “That’s– but you–”

Aziraphale squeezed his wrist. “Show me your seat,” he said, trying to keep his voice utterly stern, “and I’ll decide if I’m still cross with you.”

With a huff, Crowley tottered – knock-kneed – to his feet and turned. With an insolent look over his shoulder, he dragged his shirt up, revealing his beautifully ruddy buttocks, and shuddered again when Aziraphale pressed his hands to them. They were warm to the touch and all at once, Aziraphale realised that he wanted to be able to see them as he took advantage of them.

It transpired Crowley was quite easy to navigate when he was caught off guard and he only gave a yip of surprise as he was spun and planted face down on the bed again.

“Oi!”

Aziraphale chuckled, spreading his hand low on Crowley’s back, and pushed his shirt further up. “Oh, hush, dear boy,” he reproached fondly. “Anyone would think you weren’t enjoying every second.” He shifted his weight and knelt over the demon, knees digging into the bed on either side of his legs, and gently traced his fingertips over the lingering handprint on Crowley’s cheek. “You really do have a lovely backside, you know.”

“Shaddup,” Crowley grumbled, glowing like a sunset.

“Oh, I shan’t,” Aziraphale replied, leaning forwards and bracing his hands on Crowley’s shoulders. It was an unusual angle, but the moment his hardened part slid against the thrumming, hot skin, that didn’t matter a jot, a low sigh of pleasure escaping him. “It’s so neat. Lovely and pert.”

“Gnh!” Crowley protested, blushing furiously and burying his head in his arms. He also gave one of those particularly sinuous wriggles, which only served to settle Aziraphale’s part against the crack of his buttock, a furrow that invited ploughing.

Aziraphale shuddered pleasantly, grinding himself shameless against Crowley’s backside, kneading at the demon’s shoulders with both hands. “Oh my word…”

Still grumbling under his breath, Crowley tilted his hips up just _so _and, oh Heaven’s–

“_Oh_! That’s marvellous!”

His part was slickening itself with his every movement, a gentle build of lazy heat, and somehow, Crowley managed to start curling his hips in inviting waves, urging him on, until Aziraphale had to pull his hands back to clutch at Crowley’s hips, thumbs digging into tender pinked flesh, holding him all the better to rut against, his breath coming harder and faster until his part pulsed, spilling spend over Crowley’s backside and the bared expanse of his back.

Crowley squinted back at him over his shoulder. “Satisfied?” he asked in a grumble.

Aziraphale fought down a smile and swatted the less spattered buttock, earning a twitch from the demon. “Quite. Still, I ought to…” He shuffled down the bed and dipped down to lick at the affronted flesh. Crowley made an undignified sound, head disappearing back into the folds of his arms, his squirming only growing more emphatic as Aziraphale – with great patience and utter enjoyment – took his time licking up every last drop.

The poor demon was practically rutting against the bedding as Aziraphale spread his buttocks and licked the crack of him clean.

And just when Crowley’s little keens and moans were teetering towards a familiar precipice, Aziraphale sat back on his stockinged heels and delicately dabbed the corners of his mouth with a fingertip. “There we are. All done.”

Crowley flipped over, wide-eyed. “Angel, don’t you dare!”

“Dare what?” Aziraphale retorted, wide-eyed and innocent, as if utterly oblivious to the hard red part jutting up against Crowley’s belly.

“You can’t just _stop_.”

The angel leaned forward with a cherubic smile, bracing his hands on his thighs. “Watch me,” he said sweetly. He hopped up off the bed and slipped back into his shoes as he fastened up his hose again.

“No.”

“It has been quite lovely,” he added innocently, as he smoothed out his tunic.

“Angel!”

“But I really best… get off now.”

“ANGEL!” Crowley gestured emphatically to his groin. “You can’t – you’re just _leaving_?”

“Mm-hm.” Aziraphale whipped his cloak back around his shoulders. He paused at the door, the embodiment of serenity and virtue. “I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson.”

Crowley’s howl of “you bassssstard!” rang down the stairs after him, and he beamed as he trotted back out into the rain.


	13. Lesson 13 - 1793AD

Aziraphale had been in many a sticky situation in his time, but he had to admit his current predicament ranked quite high.

Between the stink of the gaol, the screams and baying crowd beyond the cell walls, and the gleefully malevolent executioner gloating over his forthcoming doom, he had never been quite so relieved to hear such a blessedly – or damnably – familiar voice.

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel.” Crowley drawled from behind him. “Only humans do that.”

“Crowley!” He spun to face him and every word and excuse and thought in his head slammed to a halt. There he was, slouched with that ridiculously casual elegance of his, draped in a windowsill, hair elegantly coiffed, coat sweeping around him. And, for Heaven’s sake, one foot propped up, which only meant Aziraphale couldn’t _help_ but notice the damn-near painted on tightness of his black stocking curving down his well-turned calf to his slender ankle. “Oh good _Lord_.”

And of course, Crowley acted as if he had no idea of the effect he was having. Instead, he scoffed at Aziraphale getting himself arrested over crêpes, poked fun at his choice of outfit and disparaged the inhumanity of humanity in rapid succession.

“Why don’t you just perform another miracle and go home?” he inquired.

Aziraphale fidgeted on the stool. “I was reprimanded last month,” he confessed, praying Crowley wouldn’t laugh too loudly at him. “They said I’d performed too many frivolous miracles. Got a strongly worded note from Gabriel.”

Mercifully, Crowley didn’t even crack a smile. “Well, then you’re lucky I was in the area.”

“I suppose I am.” Which brought the angel up short. After all, he wasn’t meant to be in Paris himself. What were the chances of Crowley being there as well? Unless… no. No! That was absurd. As if Crowley would show up to _help_ him. “Why are you here?”

Crowley rolled his head away, wrinkling his nose. “My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance.”

Aziraphale stiffened on horror. He’d seen the square and the blade and the blood. “So all this is your demonic work?” he demanded, surging to his feet.

Crowley – oh thank the Lord – flinched as if he’d slapped him. “No!” He looked so affronted that Aziraphale’s panicked horror subsided at once. “The humans thought it up themselves! Nothing to do with me.”

Which… was par for the course, really. Humans did have a knack of making things far worse than they needed to. Let’s have some equality, but first, how about we prune the royal family tree?

But, the thought occurred to him, if Crowley had already received a commendation for work he hadn’t done, what was he doing… oh…

Crowley lifted his hand, the pulse of demonic power gathering. He was about to undo the shackles, Aziraphale realised, exultant and mortified. He _had_ come to rescue him. Oh Lord, if anyone heard about this, if anyone _suspected_ it…

Crowley paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Can’t help noticing you seem quite at home in those, angel.”

Aziraphale frowned in confusion, then followed his gaze. “Oh! The chains? Yes” He made a face. “A little unwieldy, but I’ve had worse.” Honestly, he could probably have cracked them open if he gave it a try, but he had spent a good hour and a half debating whether angelic strength would register as a miracle or not. He glanced warily at the demon. “_Why_?”

Crowley’s teeth flashed in that familiar, wicked grin. “Poor angel,” he purred, swinging onto his feet, a shake of his hips settling the flare of his coat. “All locked up. No way to escape.”

The angel blinked at him. “Oh. I thought…” It took a moment for his brain to catch up with the predatory prowl as Crowley swayed towards him like a serpent. “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Crowley!” he exclaimed, half-laughing as he back-stepped, heels tapping on the stone floor. “Honestly! Do you really think this is the time or the place for thinking about… about _that_?”

“When I’ve got you all chained up and at my mercy?”

Aziraphale bumped – to his surprise – into the wall. He had intended to only keep a sensible distance between them. After all, time could only be held for a brief spell and it really would be dreadfully silly to do anything here, especially if–

Crowley struck, his hands slamming against the wall on either side of Aziraphale’s head as his mouth captured the angel’s. Aziraphale part his lips to protest. Yes, definitely to protest. Absolutely _not_ to lick at Crowley’s lips in invitation.

Crowley growled into his mouth, one hand fisting into Aziraphale’s hair. “Ah, ah, angel,” he murmured, lips twisting against Aziraphale’s. “You’re my prisoner here.”

The angel huffed. “Oh, _really_, you can’t come at me like–”

A snap of Crowley’s fingers wrenched Aziraphale’s wrists – and their shackles – wide apart, the chains clattering around the thick iron rings hanging from the wall.

“Crowley!”

The demon stepped back, watching him, his tongue sliding along his teeth. “Oh, the things I could do to you…”

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, knowing full well how nimble that tongue could be. “W-we’re not exactly _alone_,” he blurted out, gesturing towards the executioner as much as his shackled hands would allow.

Crowley glanced at the man, then grinned, wide and wicked. “Oh, he won’t notice a _thing_.”

“You don’t know that,” Aziraphale protested. “How long can you _really_ hold a moment in time?”

That forked tongue flickered out again as Crowley closed the distance between them. “Long enough,” he purred, sliding his hand down the front of Aziraphale’s breeches.

A well-behaved angel would probably not have immediately started squirming, smooth places giving way towards softer parts.

“I could break the chains and leave,” he threatened futilely, knowing full well his body had already betrayed him.

“You could,” Crowley agreed, the heavy weight of his palm pressing between Aziraphale’s thighs, rubbing enticingly. “And I could let you.”

And – in what felt like a split-second – he had Aziraphale’s breeches down around his knees and his face buried between the angel’s thighs. Aziraphale yelped in surprise, rising on his toes.

“Crowley!”

“I’m already down here,” Crowley’s muffled voice floated back to him between wet, greedy licks, making him bob and squirm, chains rattling.

“Yes, but–” A stifled squeak escaped him as Crowley’s tongue slid inside him, thick and nimble, and his nose nudged against the peak of Aziraphale’s sex. “Oh!” He tried to spread his legs wider, kicking to dislodge his breeches, which – oh Lord – didn’t help as it rocked him more demandingly against Crowley’s face.

Crowley pulled back, giving him a reproachful look, his face sopping wet. “Could ask,” he grumbled, then with great gentleness, slipped Aziraphale’s shoes off his feet and set them aside.

The breeches took more time, and Aziraphale’s Eve’s part twitched as he watched Crowley delicately undo his knee-band buckles, his thumb smoothing the buttons through the holes, the less than innocent way Crowley sucked on his lower lip and the small wanton sounds he made suggesting he knew exactly how wicked he was being.

When he drew them down, folded and set them atop Aziraphale’s shoes, Crowley looked up at him like some hallowed thing worthy of worship, his hands splaying on Aziraphale’s stockinged calves.

“Better?” he inquired innocently, as if Aziraphale wasn’t shivering at the contact, his skin humming, his sex peeking between the loose tails of his shirt, exposed and pink and wet.

“You’re a terrible tease,” Aziraphale huffed, shuddering again as Crowley pressed a lazy kiss to the inside of his knee, just below the top of his stocking.

“Nah.” Crowley’s lips skimmed just above the stocking cuff, lips as hot as a branding iron on Aziraphale’s bare skin. “I’ve a very good tease.” He flashed that diabolical grin, then caught the edge of Aziraphale’s stocking with his teeth and dragged it down.

“Oh!”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, as if he had made his point, then darted his tongue beneath the curve of Aziraphale’s kneecap, as his hand rudely slid the stocking down. It ought not to have been as delightful, Aziraphale’s leg quivering of its own accord against Crowley’s palm.

“C-Crowley, we really don’t have much time.”

The demon ignored him and the suggestive lift of his hips, instead lavishing slow and lazy kisses up over his knee and along his thigh. At the softest, plushest part of Aziraphale’s thigh, he bared his teeth and bit, a moan surging up the angel’s throat.

He groped out with his other foot, trying to urge Crowley forward, but that – it seemed – was counterproductive, as Crowley shifted, snaring his ankle in an iron grip, and applied his lips to the rim of his other stocking. Licking this time, curling his tongue erotically between flesh and silk and moaning in satisfaction as if… as if it was some other part.

Aziraphale’s Eve’s part _ached_ with want. “You’re being very cruel,” he protested, trying to bring his thighs together, to press a little for some kind of friction, but Crowley shifted _again_. He wedged himself neatly between Aziraphale’s legs, the rough fabric of his coat brushing against the exposed skin of Aziraphale’s inner thighs.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed indignantly, knocking his knee against his back. “You _fiend_!”

That devil’s tongue snaked once more across his skin and he felt Crowley’s chuckle as Crowley hooked a single finger over his damped stocking cuff, drawing it down, dragging a trail of saliva with it. The damned demon blew softly, the chill on the angel’s skin send a prickle of goosebumps running the length of his body.

“Lord!”

Crowley didn’t even look at him, but was grinning like the cat with canary au crème. “Do you know what I was thinking about, angel?” he inquired, between tiny kisses and stinging lovebites to Aziraphale’s quivering thigh.

“I can’t imagine,” Aziraphale bit out tartly, wrists pulling against the shackles.

Crowley spiralled his tongue upwards, along the plump swell of Aziraphale’s thigh, tantalisingly close, then stopped, twisting around to look up at him. “London,” he replied, still grinning in a way that was beginning to be alarming.

“London?” Aziraphale echoed.

“Mm.” Crowley rose on his knees, pushing Aziraphale’s shirt up over his pelvis and pressed his palms to the angel’s hips. “The Black Bull. Holborn.”

Aziraphale stared at him in befuddlement, then hissed softly as Crowley sucked a stinging bite into the softness of his belly, right below his utterly unnecessary navel. “B-black bull. An inn, isn’t…” Oh. Oh, he remembered. Oh _dear_. “Th-that was nearly two hundred years ago, darling.”

Crowley dipped his tongue into Aziraphale’s navel, drawing a helpless giggle from him. “I know.”

“But you can’t– this isn’t–” He squirmed in indignation. “That was all your own fault and you know it! You _cheated_!” 

“Demon,” Crowley pointed out and bit the roll of his belly like a pastry. And like a brief respite, two long fingers – deliciously cool – brushed between Aziraphale’s legs, a flicker of skin-tingling pressure against the nub of his part.

“Oh!”

Crowley gazed up at him, over the rims of his glasses, smirking as those cool, slick fingers slid into the heat of his body, then went still as stone. “What’s _your_ excuse, angel? I’m meant to be a bastard.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, trying his utmost to behave and not move, but his hips seemed to have a mind all of their own, grinding him down against Crowley’s motionless fingers. “Y-your influence,” he insisted, thighs bunching and shifting as he rocked himself. “I-I had just come back from doing _your_ temptation. Your… influence rubbing off on me.”

The demon burst out laughing. “Well, I definitely am now, aren’t I?”

Aziraphale huffed at him, sweat beading at his temples. “Not enough.”

Crowley – never taking his eyes off him – lowered his head and that long, wicked tongue uncurled, flickering against that lovely pressure point. Not _nearly_ enough.

Aziraphale keened, then moaned in relief when Crowley uncurled another finger into him. “Oh, that’s– I _like_–” Small, greedy sounds were tripping out of him now, the only noise beyond the jingle of the chains and the wet, sucking sound of his body devouring Crowley’s fingers to the knuckle.

Crowley slid his tongue along his lower lip. “Christ, you look good, angel.”

Bobbing on his toes, flushed and sweating, a demon’s fingers buried inside him, Aziraphale suspected not the kind of good he was meant to look, but oh, he didn’t care. He bit on his lip, trying to keep the volume down, but Crowley… Crowley seemed to have other ideas.

Serpent-fast, he whipped his hands away, and before Aziraphale could protest, hiked the angel’s legs up, flinging them over his shoulders, and buried his face between Aziraphale’s thighs, tongue thickening and thrusting into him, his nose grinding in merciless thrusts against his peak that made Aziraphale cry out urgently, rutting like an animal against his face.

Aziraphale’s wrists strained against the chains, and he arched his back, strangled cries escaping him as he pounded his heels on the demon’s back, so very, very close, but not quite cresting, not quite–

A movement made him freeze, despite Crowley’s continued greedy assault.

“C-Crowley!” he gasped out. “Crowley!” A sharp kick to the demon’s shoulder got him a reproachful nip to his nethers. Aziraphale hissed and kicked him again. “He’s _moving_!”

Not normal speed, thankfully, just a tick-tick-tick of motion like an automaton, but enough to make panic well and – oddly – the urgency. The thought of being caught made him squeeze his thighs tighter around Crowley’s head, his part pulsing.

“Crowley!” he yelped, bouncing on the demon’s mouth. “He’s _turning_.”

“Ind of usy!” Crowley slurred against him. “O ome-ing!”

Right. Yes. Do… do somet– oh Heaven’s did his tongue just get _longer_? – something!

The man…

He needed to be away. Elsewhere. Not h-h-holy Lord have mercy! A tongue and a thumb in the second hole were more than a little distracting. His heels scrubbed at Crowley’s back and he tried to gather his wits.

Right. Yes. Away. Like a prisoner. Well… yes… couldn’t happen…

“Fu–” He bit of the sound and felt the slither of Crowley’s tongue out of him, the demon lifting his drenched face.

“Did you just say–“

“Crowley, the man!”

“But you just–”

Tick-tick-tick. Jean Claude’s head inched around towards them.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale squeaked and snapped down with his hand as much as he could just as Crowley’s snapped against his backside.

Around them, he felt the release of the constriction of time, the demonic power whirling around them to hide them from view, and Crowley pressed a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss to his inner thigh.

“You naughty bugger,” he purred as two revolutionary guards stormed in and grabbed the bewildered Jean Claude.

Aziraphale didn’t know what had confused him more: the complete absence of any prisoner in the cell with him or the fact that to all intents and purposes he was dressed like an aristocrat. Still, his little chums didn’t seem confused and grabbed the first aristo they saw, bundling him out of the cell.

“Hardly counts as a miracle, really,” Aziraphale mumbled, flushing. Not when it was simply moving two different outfits between two people. He shifted his weight on Crowley’s shoulders, his own shoulders pressed up against the cell wall, making a face at the coarseness of the borrowed shirt and coat.

Crowley grinned up at him from between his legs. “That hat looks _adorable_ on you.”

Aziraphale made a moue at him. “Just…” He flapped a hand as much as the shackle would allow. “Finish the job.”

Crowley pointed licked at the corner of his mouth. “What if I don’t?”

“Crowley!”

The demon laughed and kissed his thigh. “The look on your face,” he hooted. He snapped his free hand and the shackles dropped away from Aziraphale’s wrists. Aziraphale scrabbled at the wall in surprise, making an inquiring sound. “Prefer a bit of hands-on interaction.”

“Ah!” He beamed, bringing one hand down to plunge into Crowley’s dreadful hairdo, messing it beyond redemption. “That I can do.” And with no further ado, pushed Crowley’s face firmly back to his Eve’s part, the demon’s chuckles vibrating against his thighs.

Cradled by Crowley’s hands, he rocked himself with abandon onto the demon’s hot, licking tongue, moaning again as Crowley slid spend-slicked fingers into his second hole, thrusting fingers and tongue and nose and Lord, the sounds, the _feel_ of him humming in delight as he _devoured_.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped out, clutching tangles of red hair, as sensation washed through him. “Oh!”

It rose like a tide, his whole body quaking as delicious heat throbbed through him, stealing his breath and making him tug urgently, wildly, at Crowley’s hair. And Crowley– he– oh the wicked teasing bastard – he laughed! Laughed and licked and sucked and wriggled fingers until Aziraphale slumped back against the wall and _kept_ going. Kept… kept at it…tongue squirming and hands and oh sweet Lord have mercy…

Time turned hazier for… a while. A little while? A long while? Until Aziraphale, limp and boneless, watched with dazed pleasure as his thighs slid off Crowley’s shoulders. He _ached_ in the most delicious of ways and when Crowley gently, gently lowered him onto Crowley’s own erect Adam’s part, the sound that eked from his throat was scarcely human at all.

Crowley squeezed his hips, holding him steady, and rocked into him, deep and delicious and Aziraphale – limp against the wall – could only let him, pathetic little breathless sounds creeping from his lips. The demon grinned. Face flushed and still dripping with spend. Glasses gone. When? Didn’t matter. Gone. All golden eyes and lovely, hair wild around his face.

Didn’t take long, gentle push-pull, and he sank forward too, rubbing his wet warm mouth against Aziraphale’s. The angel licked. Little lick. Tasted himself. Tasted Crowley.

Stomach growled.

Crowley laughed, kissing him. “S’fair,” he said, eyes shining. “Worked up an appetite.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale arched his back luxuriously, all used and beautifully tender. “Lunch?”

Crowley glanced towards the window. “Dinner,” he corrected, still smiling.

The angel bit his lip, a hiss slipping from him as Crowley gently lifted their bodies apart. He sank to sit on the stone floor, legs tingling from exertion, and watched fondly as Crowley retrieved the substitute stockings and gently rolled them onto each leg.

“What do you fancy?” the demon inquired, smoothing the rough fabric around Aziraphale’s knees.

Aziraphale couldn’t help the silly wash of affection for the demon. “How about some crêpes?”

Crowley burst out laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lesson being don't troll your demon or he will come back to bite you :D


	14. Lesson 14 - 1800

It had been a very peculiar day.

Gabriel wasn’t usually known for his fickle moods, especially not when it came to orders. An order was an order, simple as that. He didn’t just change them at the drop of a hat and yet, one moment Aziraphale was under orders to prepare for his return to Heaven – home – for a promotion and the next…

Aziraphale picked up the box, staring at the medal.

What on earth had happened in the hour and a half between Gabriel’s initial arrival and final departure? Quite aside from the fact the Archangel had come back with a new and elegant suit, there was nothing. No natural disaster or chaos or anything amiss in the city.

The bell above the door jangled as it swung open.

“I’m sorry, we’re not open yet.” He ran his thumb over the medal.

“Obviously.”

The angel spun around, startled. “Crowley!”

The demon grinned at him, sauntering in like he owned the place, his ridiculously over-the-top cape swirling around him. “Had to come back and deliver my chocolates, didn’t I?” He held up the beribboned box, giving it a shake. “Now that your… friends have buggered off.”

Aziraphale laughed weakly, still feeling rather shaken about the whole thing. “Yes. They have.” He snapped the box shut, dropping it on the desk, as if it might burn him. “I suppose you heard?”

Crowley nodded, meandering closer and sitting on the edge of the desk, setting down the box of chocolates and picking up the little blue box that Gabriel had left behind. “Very penetrating voice, that Archangel,” he said dryly, flicking open the lid and peering in at the medal. “Ha! Look at you! A commendation and everything.”

Aziraphale nodded, frowning. “I don’t understand what changed their minds. About me going… you know… back there.”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” Crowley whipped the medal out of the box, tossing the box over his shoulder. “Since you’re not going and all that.” He unravelled the ribbon and held it up to his throat, teeth flashing in a grin. “Does it suit me, angel?”

“Oh, do stop playing with it,” Aziraphale huffed anxiously, half-heartedly grabbing for it.

The demon laughed, slipping off the desk and skipping a few paces away. “You’re no fun.” He held it up, letting it spin, obnoxiously shiny and gold. “You know, I know exactly where you can put it.”

“I can think of a few places myself,” Aziraphale retorted tartly.

“So grumpy!” Crowley chortled and made a beeline for the bust of Antoninus, draping the medal around the statue’s gleaming throat. “There! Perfect!” He gestured extravagantly like a stage performer. “What do you think? Just his colour, eh?”

The coil of dread knotted around Aziraphale’s sternum loosened a little, a shaky laugh escaping him. If he’d been dragged back to Heaven, he would’ve missed this nonsense. The silliness Crowley did for his own amusement, as well as Aziraphale’s. “It looks better on him than it did on you.”

Crowley clutched his chest in feigned shock. “Angel!”

This time, Aziraphale did smile. “Oh hush.” He glanced at the box Crowley had brought and picked it up, delighted to recognise the name on the lid. “And I can’t tell you how pleased I am not to have missed these.”

“Eh.” Crowley sauntered back towards him. “I was in Berlin. Thought you might like to try them.”

“I certainly shall.”

Aziraphale hesitated, his heart drumming a wild beat. They had sat and talked in many places in many times, but this was the first time he had had somewhere to call his own and now… now, when he’d been so close to being whipped back to Heaven without so much as a by-your-leave, away without a chance to… that was to say…

“Would you like to join me?” he said, clinging to the box of chocolates. “I’ve made a rather comfortable sitting area and we could share them, if you would like to. I mean, you don’t have to, but if you would, I wouldn’t mind–”

“Angel.” Crowley removed his glasses, snapping the legs closed, eyes warm and golden in the sunlight. “I’d be delighted.”

Aziraphale’s smile felt oddly tremulous. “Jolly good!” He motioned for Crowley to follow him. “This way.”

Everything was pristine in the cosy little back room of the shop. He still needed to get some stationary and papers for the desk, but it was flanked nicely by two cherub lamps and he had saved a space on top for… oh, some kind of decoration, when he eventually found it.

To the left of the desk, there was a rather fine leather and horsehair couch with elegantly curved arms, precisely the kind of furniture Crowley always enjoyed lounging on, even when he wasn’t meant to. Not that he had bought it with Crowley in mind. Well… not entirely.

And the demon sprawled down onto it, limbs akimbo, draping himself like the serpent he was, his red-lined cape trailing across the floor. “Oh, very nice, angel. Not too uppity. Decent size. Very modern by your usual standards.”

Aziraphale hugged the chocolate box a little closer. “Well, one has to take what one can get.” He dragged the chair out at the desk, sitting down on it. “I still need to get some bits and pieces. Make it well and truly my own.”

Crowley tilted his head to grin at him. “Especially now that you’re here for the foreseeable, eh?” He sighed, kicking one leg over the arm of the couch, and tucked his hand behind his head. “Glad to see all your work hasn’t been in vain.”

Aziraphale smiled crookedly as he untied the ribbon around the box. “Yes. I’d’ve hated to leave… well…” He didn’t dare meet Crowley’s eyes. “I think it’s safe to say there are things I would miss.” He lifted the lid off the box to take refuge in the indulgent gift. “Oh my word!”

The box was a jewellery case of confectionary, different shapes and sizes and shades of chocolate.

“Got a bit of a mix,” Crowley said, the foot dangling over the arm of the couch swaying back and forth. “Didn’t know what you liked best.”

An ornate little card with exquisite drawings sketched out the different sweets and their contents.

Aziraphale immediately picked up a dark nutty one, holding it out. “This one, you’ll like.”

Crowley listed to his side, reaching across to take it. “Yeah?”

“I believe so.” Aziraphale picked a chocolate-covered marzipan rose and groaned in delight as he bit into it.

Popping his own in his mouth, Crowley just smiled. “Glad you’re here to enjoy it.” He crunched on it, making a curious sound. “Not bad.”

Aziraphale offered another and while he knew he ought to keep some for later, it had been a very trying day. Before he knew it, they had worked their way through much of the box, only one lonely chocolate still sitting in the delicate paper cases, and his whole body subsided with relief in the chair.

“I hate it when they turn up out of the blue like that,” he grumbled around a mouthful of strawberry crème. “And no warning, either.”

Crowley made a noncommittal sound, watching him with that same lazy smile.

And – as if the fading stress and panic had drawn away a curtain – a thought occurred to the angel.

“How _did_ you know they’d changed their minds?” he inquired. “I mean, you were here when they told me I was meant to be going” – he gestured vaguely ceilingwards – “but you weren’t here when they came back and said things had changed.”

To his surprise, Crowley sputtered and pinked and waved a hand. “Lurking. Outside. Good ears, me.”

And it struck Aziraphale with astonishment to realise that Crowley was lying. Not only was he lying, but Aziraphale could _tell_.

Which meant he knew because he’d had some part in it, which he only would have done because…

Because…

_Because_…

“Oh,” he said, very softly.

“Ngh!” Crowley shuffled up the couch. “Don’t! Not with the eyes and the face and the…” He flapped a hand. “I just didn’t want to deal with some other bugger! Michael or somebody! That’s all! Nothing more to it than that!”

Aziraphale set the chocolate box on his desk, taking one of the last sweets between forefinger and thumb. He rose, crossing the floor, and with no qualms at all, sat down on the couch – and Crowley’s cloak – hip to hip with the demon.

“You’re a ridiculous liar,” he murmured, bringing the chocolate to Crowley’s lips.

Crowley made a face, but didn’t tear his eyes away as he daintily nipped the chocolate from Aziraphale’s fingertips with his sharp, even teeth.

When he chased that chocolate with his own lips, he felt Crowley’s lips curl against his. A flick of his tongue caught the taste of mingled flavours of cherry and coffee and sweet vanilla, a small, pleased sound escaping him as he pressed Crowley back on the couch, spilling over him.

“One day,” he murmured, between soft, flickering kisses, “you’ll let me thank you.”

“And the world’ll end there and then,” Crowley chuckled. “Anyway, like I said, wasn’t for you. Don’t like Michael. That’s all.”

“Mm.” He brought their lips together again, splaying his hand on Crowley’s chest. His heart was rabbiting away and no wonder, if he’d been as panicked as Aziraphale had been. The thought they might have lost… this. Whatever this was.

The shocking pain of the though turned the angel’s kisses more urgent, his hand sliding up to cradle Crowley’s head. What if they had hauled him away? What if he had never had a chance to say goodbye? What if they never share their breath or the taste of wine or–

He pressed his palm to the front of Crowley’s trousers, the demon giving a strangled moan against his lips, and a part – Adam’s – swelled beneath the fabric. Aziraphale drew back just enough to stare at him, palming him roughly through his trousers, shaping and squeezing and rubbing.

Crowley’s eyes widened, dark and golden, his breaths stuttering between Aziraphale’s lips. He groped for his buttons, but Aziraphale stilled him with a shake of his head.

“But–” Crowley moaned rocking up against his palm.

“Not on my new couch!” Aziraphale retorted, a split second before both of them broke into helpless laughter.

“_Fine_,” Crowley groused, squirming under his hand. “But I demand an upgrade.”

“Such as?”

One of Crowley’s wandering hands dipped between his thighs. “Hop on, angel. Like old times.” The sharp grin on his lips softened. “First time?”

Aziraphale tried to ignore the fluttering rise of emotions in his breast. The first time, when he had been adamantly teaching a lesson. When they had touched and learned a good deal more than he had ever intended or expected.

Wordlessly, he rose from the couch, then lifted one leg to straddle Crowley’s slender hips, allowing the smoothness between his thighs to soften and open, already growing moist as he dipped his hips down to press to the prominent bulge in the front of Crowley’s trousers.

“Oh!”

Long-fingers hands curled over his hips. “Ngh,” Crowley agreed, rolling his hips up under him, all the layers of cloth between their sexes doing nothing to stifle his ardour.

Seams, Aziraphale thought rather giddily. Buttons. All kinds of textures adding to the sensation. And without any thought at all, he found himself rocking to match every upward tilt of Crowley’s pelvis. His knees slithered on the red silk of Crowley’s cape and they both laughed again when he slid a little too far forward.

“Maybe later,” Crowley said with that wicked grin of his, firm hands steering Aziraphale back until they were rutting against one another, grinding and groaning in syncopation. One of Crowley’s hands teased under the end of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, but Aziraphale caught it, shaking his head.

“Like this,” he breathed, staring down at Crowley’s golden eyes. “Fully-dressed. L-like gentleman.”

“Ha!” Crowley’s eyes crinkled with delight. “Fucking right we are!” He tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s hips, urging him on. “Go on, angel. Ride me like a gentleman.”

The relief, the euphoria, the dizzy joy of knowing he – _they_ – could still do this made him laugh, though he still cried out a scandalised, “Crowley!” Even as he rode him, even as he rocked and felt the hot press of Crowley’s hardness grinding against his throbbing folds and that aching delicious little knot of pressure. “Oh!” He shifted his angle. “There! Oh heavens!”

One hand dipped down from his hip, slipping between them, neat as a key in a lock. Crowley caught his lower lip between his teeth and pressed and oh, Aziraphale felt the surge, stars bursting behind his eyes as he positively bounced on Crowley lap and knowing fingers.

And still Crowley kept moving, grinding out more urgent and wanton cries, until Aziraphale was clinging to the back of the couch and shuddering in place, pleasure washing through him. And Crowley arced up from the couch, his arm around the angel’s waist and his mouth caught Aziraphale’s and swallowed his gasps of release.

“Oh…” Aziraphale breathed, sagging into him. “Oh dear…”

Crowley smiled into his kiss. “Oh shut up, angel,” he murmured fondly. “I’m not finished yet.” And with the gentlest of pressure to the base of Aziraphale’s back, he urged him to rock again, his hardness caught between them, and sending renewed urgent sparks flickering through Aziraphale’s already thrumming body.

Aziraphale sank his free hand into Crowley’s hair, parting his lips with a bold thrust of his tongue, devouring him and moving more urgently as Crowley’s breaths quickened, sweet and sharp and sugary on his lips.

And… oh how wonderful the Eve’s part was, for the recently banked fire was surging again and they were panting together as – by some unholy miracle – Crowley twisted them on the couch, pinning him against the back of it and going at him as if the very fiends of hell were after him.

“Oh _Christ_!” Aziraphale wailed, twisting at Crowley’s hair, his leg locking around Crowley’s hip, and the demon gave a sharp cry, burying his face in Aziraphale’s throat as he shuddered through his release.

They crumpled there, breathing hard and clinging on to each other, legs and cloak tangled up.

“Mm.”

Crowley made a small, incoherent sound and nipped his earlobe, making him draw a sharp breath between his teeth. When Crowley’s mouth moved downwards, tugging at his cravat, yanking it free, he ought to have protested, but the warm weight of the demon pressing between his thighs had left him more than a little amenable.

A stinging bite to his throat made him bite his lip, curling his fingers deeper into Crowley’s hair. Another and another, strong and sharp enough to leave marks, had him squirming against the front of Crowley’s breeches.

“You’re a terrible tease,” he groaned.

“Am not,” Crowley mumbled against his skin. “Never tease.”

His arm eased up between them and tugged at the serpent pin holding his cape closed. It fluttered loose, the brooch clattering on the floor somewhere. Rugs, Aziraphale thought hazily as Crowley reclaimed his mouth. There really ought to be rugs.

“Hold on,” Crowley breathed against his lips, between kisses.

Aziraphale bunched his hand in Crowley’s waistcoat, the other still in his hair and–

“Oh Heavens!” he squeaked as he was abruptly whipped from against the back of the couch to pinned on his back on the seat. Not the short route, either, his world more than a little blurred by Crowley’s manoeuvre.

The demon grinned down at him, looking quite pleased with himself, his hips rolling between Aziraphale’s thighs again. His part was firming up again already and he gave Aziraphale’s thighs a squeeze. “Round two?”

“The _couch_!” Aziraphale protested, though he had to admit it sounded half-hearted in his own ears.

Crowley’s eyes danced. “Look down.”

Somehow, the lovely, ridiculous demon had not only flipped him through 270 degrees, but had managed to arrange the extravagant cloak beneath them, spreading to cover the entire length of the couch.

Aziraphale tried his very best to look cross, but his lips twitched.

“You insatiable beast,” he grumbled, pulling Crowley back down over him. “Always finding loopholes.” He groped between them, undoing the buttons at Crowley’s waist, letting the trousers flap open. A little fumbling got him under Crowley’s damped shirt and he beamed as Crowley groaned and pushed against his palm. “Ah, that’s better.”

“And you say I’m insatiable,” Crowley retorted fondly, leaning down to kiss him again, one hand sinking into the couch beside Aziraphale’s head. His tongue dipped playfully between Aziraphale’s lips, teasing him back into the dance, though Aziraphale was gratified to feel Crowley’s breath hitch when he tightened his fingers.

Crowley’s hand eased under his back, pulling him up, closer, pressing them against one another again and slowly rocking, the flick of his tongue echoed in the press-rub of his hips. Aziraphale shifted under him, a pleased sound hitching in his throat as one button then another of his breech straps came undone.

Soft kisses peppered off his lips and down to his throat as nimble fingers pushed between fabric and flesh, nudging his trousers down an inch at time. He groped down his own front, unfastening the other side of the straps and pulling the straps loose to toss them aside, but to his surprise, Crowley’s hand stilled, curved around the swell of his buttock.

“Angel…” The catch in his voice made Aziraphale frown.

“Are you all right, dear?”

Crowley lifted his head, his cheeks flushed and eyes warm and bright. “You know what I am.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Of course. A demonic aardvark, unless I’m mistaken.”

Crowley laughed, creases spreading around those lovely eyes. “No,” he said, giving Aziraphale a gentle squeeze. “I mean…” His tongue darted out, forking briefly.

The sight of that tongue made heat pool wantonly between Aziraphale’s splayed thighs. “Good with your tongue?”

“Angel,” Crowley groaned reproachfully. “I’m just… I’ve got a suggestion. I don’t know if…” He huffed, then caught Aziraphale’s hand and pushed it down between their bodies to his Adam’s part. Aziraphale blinked stupidly. Parts. He closed his hand, staring blankly at Crowley’s flushed face, as two Adam’s parts rubbed against his palm. Oh. Of course. Serpents had…

“Oh my word…”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley blurted out. “But just… thought I’d put it out there. So you know. Since you have the two holes and everything.”

Aziraphale nodded, stroking his hand down one then the other. As long as his single part, but slimmer, more tapered, and from Crowley’s deep flush and small, soft pants, equally as sensitive. And a natural element of himself that he had never dared to show before.

And now, he had. Because they had come so close to missing the opportunity.

“Yes,” he said at once.

“Ngh?”

Aziraphale tangled his other hand in Crowley’s hair, pulling him down to kiss him again. “Yes, you silly serpent.”

Crowley squeezed his backside again, kissing him hungrily. “Yeah?”

The angel nuzzled the tips of their noses together. “It might take some arranging,” he murmured, wrapping his hand around both of Crowley’s lengths and stroking. They were already so slick and hard and the thought of them both penetrating him at the same time made his heart skip. And side by side, which certainly couldn’t mean on the back or on the front without some bodily contortions.

The demon drew apart from him, withdrawing his hands and sitting back on his heels between Aziraphale’s thighs, a furrow of consideration creasing his brow. Aziraphale gazed up at him fondly, his hair in tousled disarray and… and his eyes were drawn irresistibly downwards to the twin parts jutting promisingly out of the dark folds of Crowley’s breeches.

He couldn’t help himself, reaching out and stroking them, watching moisture dew the blunt heads.

“Oi!” Crowley growled huskily, swatting his hand away. “Let me think!”

Aziraphale feigned a pout, bringing up his slick hand to his mouth and licking his fingertips. It tasted a little different, though not as much as he had expected. Crowley gave another growl, grabbing his wrist and pinning Aziraphale’s hand to the back of the couch.

“Stop that!” he warned, wagging a finger in Aziraphale’s face.

The angel giggled helplessly, so much of the stress of the day popping like a bubble. He kissed the reproachful fingertip. “Sorry, my dear.”

Crowley bared his teeth at him, then slipped his hands under Aziraphale’s thighs, hiking them up towards his chest. “Right… let me…” He considered the angel again, and all at once, Aziraphale was manhandled over onto his side. “There! That’ll work.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale’s shoulders shook with barely stifled mirth. “How very courtly of you. Tip me upside down and say job done, eh?”

The demon swatted his backside. “Oh, shut up, angel.” He caught the waistband of Aziraphale’s breeches, dragging them down over the curve of his backside, the slip of cool silk under Aziraphale’s newly-exposed skin sending a shiver through him. Crowley pushed the breeches down to the middle of his thighs, then teased his fingers up the bare skin. “How’s that?”

With one arm tucked beneath his head, Aziraphale felt positively louche, fully dressed yet bared and salacious. He darted his tongue along his lower lip, tilting his head to watch Crowley through his lashes. “Quite comfortable.”

Golden eyes gleamed and fingers slid towards his nethers, stroking warm, wanting flesh. Aziraphale shuddered, eyes pressing closed.

“Look at the state of you,” Crowley breathed, circling his thumb at the sensitive nub, quick-quick-slow, fingers threading and spreading thickened folds, already slick with spend. The angel bit down on his lower lip to stifle a moan as two fingers pushed inside him with a soft, wet sound. His hips started to move of their own accord, rolling into the touch, and he very nearly whined when Crowley’s fingers slipped away.

Dripping and cool, the demon’s fingertips slid under his shirt, pushing it up to utterly expose him, sliding along the crease of his buttocks. The press of fingers to the second hole, stroking and slippery, felt sinfully lewd and Aziraphale caught a sharp breath as they thrust slowly into him.

“Enough?” Crowley breathed, pinning his thighs down with his other hand. “Angel?”

It… it was lovely, but no. Not for the second hole. Not if he was to take Crowley in full.

“Kitchen,” he managed, waving a hand across the room. “Oil.”

Crowley scrambled from the couch, clattering through to the small kitchen. There was little enough there, but there were a few essentials he always had. Just in case.

Aziraphale dipped his hands back between his thighs, stroking at his sex, though really, he had no need to. The anticipation had him dripping, moisture curling down his thigh.

“Where did you steal a samovar?” Crowley called through.

“Crowley!”

The demon laughed, appearing back in the doorway, bottle of oil in hand. There was something filthy and delicious about seeing him there, twin parts jutting skywards, vividly red as the embroidery on his black waistcoat. Aziraphale gave a hungry moan, curling two fingers into his Eve’s part, sinking them to the knuckle.

“You randy bastard!” Crowley chuckled, pouring some oil into his palm as he approached. “You like what you see, eh?”

Aziraphale nodded, staring greedily at the twin parts. “Touch them, darling.”

A long-fingered hand, caught both parts, squeezing, slick golden oil dribbling between his fingers and dropping onto the front of his trousers. The sound of it, the wet slide, the rustle of Crowley’s heavy overcoat, the little panted breaths, it only made Aziraphale drive his fingers deeper and more urgently.

“Quickly,” he panted, pulling his hand free and wrapping his arm over his thighs, dragging them up flush to his chest, leaving him open and bare. “Please!”

With remarkable delicacy, Crowley set the bottle on the floor, then sank to kneel, framing Aziraphale’s folded form with his thighs, one hand pressing to Aziraphale’s bare hip, the other to his thigh, so close his fingertip brushed Aziraphale’s. “I can use my fingers first.”

Aziraphale shook his head, squirming demandingly. “Now.”

Crowley stared at him for a long and breath-taking moment, then lowered his hand from Aziraphale’s hip, taking a hold of his parts. The tips rubbed against Aziraphale’s skin, a delicious teasing pressure, and the angel shivered happily, crooking his pinkie to curl over Crowley’s as one head and then the other pressed to his openings.

He twisted to look up at Crowley, drinking in the flush across the demon’s cheeks, the concentration, the way he was biting his lip to messes. His grip on Crowley’s pinkie tightened as both parts sank in to him, slow and steady and _deep._

“Sweet Lord…” Aziraphale gasped out, then their bodies were pressed flush.

Crowley stooped over him, breathing just as hard. “All right?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale dared a roll of his hips, stars bursting behind his eyes at the combined pressure, and Crowley took the hint at once. Not his usual urgent pace, but deep and slow strokes. “Oh, that… that’s lovely…”

“Can’t have them popping out if I get too excited,” Crowley said with utter seriousness, which dissolved into a grin when Aziraphale managed a glare at him. And then he only went and made matters worse, covering Aziraphale’s hand and guiding it downwards, both of their fingers pressing between Aziraphale’s thighs.

“Oh!”

“S’right, angel,” Crowley breathed, rolling his serpentine hips over and over, matching their fumbling fingers to the rhythm, building and building a low thrumming pressure that pulsed and spread and Lord, Aziraphale could feel it rolling through every cell, every molecule and he forgot what breathing was and thinking and only knew the slick hot pressure of Crowley drawing and plunging into him and the ripple of his fingers and hard and deeper and strong and unbearably and delicious and oh sweet Christ!

He seemed quite flung from his body, dazed and suspended in a haze, moans heavy on his tongue, and little by little, he drifted back, dragging Crowley’s sopping fingers to his mouth as the demon rubbed and pressed and panted against him. He sucked Crowley’s fingers into his mouth, licking the wetness of himself, and Crowley gave a primal snarl, depth and pace quickening, the wet slap of skin on skin utterly obscene.

Throbbing and aching, overly sensitive parts thrumming anew, Aziraphale moaned as Crowley’s fingers pumped into his mouth to match his Adam’s parts and he squeezed the demon’s wrist, thrusting his body back against him, meeting him until his hips stuttered and the spill of fluids flooded him, spend gushing both into and out of him, spilling over his expose thighs and onto the cloak below.

Crowley crumpled over him, falling forward, his forehead knocking on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Nggggh.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale drew his hand free, kissing each fingertip with shivering lips.

How long they lay like that, utterly spent and sated and soaked, Aziraphale neither knew not cared. He was warm and the weight of Crowley’s body draped bonelessly over his was comforting and comfortable in one. Lips nuzzled his earlobe eventually. Teeth tugged. Kisses to jaw, chin, throat. Hand on his curled up thighs, lifting one, rolling him to his back again.

Aziraphale rolled his head, gazing sated and sleepy at the demon kneeling between his knees, his legs bare and exposed to mid-thigh. And really, it ought to have come as no surprise at all when Crowley struck, serpent fast, tongue delving where his parts had so recently ventured.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped out. “Too much!”

The demon’s eyes met his. “No such thing.”

And without further preamble, he pressed Aziraphale’s thighs back to his chest and sank to his belly, that long wicked tongue lashing Aziraphale from front to back. Nimble as fingers, and thicker than them too, Crowley penetrated him anew, licking greedily into him, cleaning up every drop he had spilled and Aziraphale…

Aziraphale caught his thighs with his shivering hands, pulling them up, opening himself, teeth buried into his lip as Crowley ravished him over and over, licking clean every part of him, then suckling hungrily at the bud of his sex, fingers thrusting boldly into him, making him moan and keen all over again, then rising up over him, and a single Adam’s part – thicker by comparison – driving into him, pushing him hard up the couch.

And when Crowley slid from the couch when he was spent again, he gently turned the angel and sank to kneel between his thighs, and Aziraphale didn’t stop him. He only carded his fingers through copper hair as the urgency gave way to soft, tender licks and kisses and a release no less staggering for its quietness.

Outside, the world was dark and quiet and Crowley still knelt there, cheek to Aziraphale’s bare thigh, a fingertip brushing a warm red mark on the pale skin.

“I thought–” He began. A frown furrowed his brow and the gust of a sigh on Aziraphale’s well-used part was soothingly cool. “When I heard what they said–” Gold eyes rose tentatively, meeting Aziraphale’s.

He didn’t need to say.

Neither of them needed to say.

“I know,” Aziraphale murmured, voice a little hoarse. “I know, Crowley.”

The demon’s eyes were a little too bright and when he ducked his head and pressed a kiss to the curve of Aziraphale’s belly. “Michael’s still a wanker, though,” he muttered.

Aziraphale tugged his hair gently. “They are, a bit.”

Golden eyes met his, creased with a smile. “More than a bit.”

“Well,” Aziraphale pulled again, urging him up to sprawl beside him on the couch, “I’m very glad you don’t have to deal with them. Very clever of you to guarantee it.”

Crowley spilled halfway over him, both of them drawing their legs up to stretch out on the couch, the demon tucking himself behind Aziraphale’s back and wrapping his arms around the angel’s middle. “S’what I am,” he murmured, nuzzling Aziraphale’s throat. “Clever, me.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale subsided back into his embrace.

How natural it felt. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t done it a thousand times before, and yet, this was the first time in a place he would call home. On furniture he had chosen, surrounded by things he had collected and sated on chocolate and desire the demon had provided.

It took several minutes for his mind to notice what had changed.

“Crowley,” he murmured drowsily, patting the demon on the hand.

“Mpf?”

“Did you make my couch deeper?” It certainly couldn’t have accommodated two adult-shaped people so easily that morning.

The muffled snicker against his throat answered the question.

“You,” he chastised fondly, “are a rascal.”

“Mm.” Crowley agreed, sounding happy and dozy, giving him a squeeze. “Gonna need to get something else to put on it, though. You’ve totally buggered my cloak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't _not_ include the missing bookshop scene. Also, today's lesson is brought to you by herpetology :D


	15. Lesson 15 - 1862

Aziraphale turned the small folded envelope over in his hands. He didn’t have to break the black wax seal to know who it was from.

It would be an arrangement for a meeting. Formal. Careful. At once of a dozen rendezvous points scattered around the city.

Things had changed a great deal since he had taken up occupancy of the bookshop. No small wonder, really, given the fright they’d both had with the promotion affair.

While he settled in to his lodgings in Soho, Crowley had found rooms in Mayfair, only a mile or so away. Compared to their transient existence, passing from place to place across the expansive span of the world, it almost seemed like the human equivalent of moving in next door to one another.

At first, it had been delightfully novel, but then came the pitfalls.

“I had a letter from Head Office,” he had told Crowley one evening, his fingers sunk in the demon’s hair. “They wanted to know if I intended to keep this as my permanent base.”

Crowley glanced up from his task. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale slid further down the couch, warmed with drink and rich food and arousal. “I told them I had suspicions of a wily adversary loose in the city. Keep friends close and enemies closer and all that tosh.”

Lean hands splayed on his hips. “Right.” Crowley leaned down to nuzzle at his erection. “Good idea.”

“Mm.”

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have said anything. From that night, Crowley had become more skittish. Their meetings had to be strategically arranged, he insisted. Just in case. Avoid suspicion. Never know when they might be watching, waiting. Can’t risk another medal incident, can we?

It certainly didn’t help with all the doomsayers howling about the end of times coming and the inevitable Armageddon.

Casual lunches were no longer a thing. They felt more covert and stealthy, Crowley constantly watchful and suspicious.

Their more intimate liaisons were equally tense, though Aziraphale had to admit there was a certain thrill in Crowley dragging him to the floor of a theatre box and pressing his dripping sex onto Aziraphale’s face, while devouring him entirely, hands pinning Aziraphale’s thighs to the floor, smothering the angel’s moans of pleasure with the wet heat of his Eve’s part.

They had encounters in all kinds of places, rushed and urgent and messy: the library in the British Museum where – with two of Crowley’s fingers in his second hole and three in his mouth – Aziraphale had made a terrible mess of a roll of old maps; on his knees on the floor of an enclosed carriage, Crowley’s nails turning clawlike and shredding into the seat as Aziraphale swallowed him down; that one occasion when Aziraphale had donned the full skirts of a lady and dealt with a customer as if there weren’t hands on her thighs and a tongue wriggling inside her.

And yet, despite the thrill and the urgency, it was also unexpectedly exhausting, the demon’s sharp prickly moods rasping away at the comfortable life he was trying to settle into. Heaven were content to leave him alone, yet Crowley’s paranoia was setting him on edge all the damned time.

Each liaison had been preceded by an envelope much like the one he held now, though those were marked with green wax. Black wax was for something more serious. Barely bigger than his palm, it would have a date, a place and no signature.

He broke the seal and tugged out the piece of paper within. As soon as he read the name, the paper turned to ash between his fingers.

“Really, dear,” he sighed, brushing flakes of it off his waistcoat. It really was a little too theatrical.

Still, all the same, he put on his coat and donned his top hat and marched out into the city.

St. James’s Park wasn’t too far to walk, though to bow to Crowley’s current caution, he took the long way around, entering from the palace end of the park.

They had been coming to the park for quite some time, a long while before it was respectable. They’d had a rather enjoyable time in the shadow of a weeping willow, one balmy afternoon in the 1680s, taking their pleasure as so many people did in the hazy haven of the park.

He spotted the demon instantly, a thin black spike of a shape standing beside the duck pond and drifted casually closer, peeling off his gloves and removing his hat as he neared. Crowley didn’t even look his way, even as he scattered crumbs for the ducks.

“Look,” the demon murmured, “I’ve been thinking – what it all goes wrong? We’ve got a lot in common, you and me.”

Aziraphale tried to ignore the heat up the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” he demurred. “We may both have started off as angels, but _you_ are Fallen.”

Crowley made a vague uncomfortable sound. “I didn’t really Fall,” he said, as if there were really any technicalities about the matter. “I just sort of… sauntered vaguely downwards.” He shifted, gravel crunching underfoot. “Listen. I need a favour.”

Oh sweet Lord. Between bending to his anxious wishes, being rushed from pillar to post, acting as if they were in some kind of absurd covert adventure book, Aziraphale couldn’t help the curtness of his response. “We already have the agreement, Crowley.” He hurled a large crumb of bread a little too aggressively. “Stay out of each other’s way. Lend a hand when needed.”

“This is something else,” Crowley said, staring out over the pond, “for if it all goes pear-shaped.”

Of course it was. Yet another little step in their complicated dance of caution and fear.

“I like pears,” he sighed, as if that might change the topic, as if it might give Crowley a hint to direct the conversation and this agitated mood elsewhere. It had been such a long time since they ate together.

“If it all goes _wrong_,” Crowley bulldozed straight back to whatever point he was trying to make. “I want insurance.”

Aziraphale frowned, shaking crumbs out of his hat, and glancing up. “What?”

“I wrote it down,” Crowley said, holding out a folded slip of paper. Sweet Heaven, they were literally side by side and he couldn’t just _say_ it? This was a new level of existential dread, even for him, made worse as he babbled on, “Walls have ears. Well… not walls. Trees have ears. Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears? Must do. It’s how they hear other ducks…”

Impatiently, Aziraphale opened the paper and for a moment, it felt like the entire world fell away beneath him. Written in sharp black text, two words: Holy water. Heaven’s most potent weapon against Hell. The only substance truly capable of destroying a demon. Utterly destroying. Body. Mind. Soul. _Everything_.

And Crowley wanted him to give him some so he could–

In order for him to–

“Out of the question!”

Crowley seemed surprised by his response. “Why not?”

Aziraphale stared at him, stricken. Did he truly think things were so terrible that it was necessary? “It would destroy you!” He thrust the paper back at the demon. “I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!”

“That’s not what I want it for!” Crowley growled, pushing the note back at him. “Just for insurance.”

Aziraphale felt sick. And if he did dare to hand it over, if he provided a Heavenly weapon to the demon, without any idea of what it would do, if Hell’s envoy on earth decided to use it–

Oh Heavens, if he feared Hell catching on to them, if he dreaded as much as he clearly did, would he use it as a way out? Would he be desperate enough? And if – when – he did, Hell would demand to know which angel had given him it. Which angel had– had _killed_ him. And he would be– they would think he had– they would _believe _he had–

Whether they considered him a traitor for giving a demon Holy Water or a hero to be lauded for murdering one…

It didn’t bear thinking about.

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley,” he retorted. “Do you know what trouble I’d be in it”– he shot a wary glance Heavnwards–“if they knew I’d been fraternising?” Crowley slowly turned to stare at him behind his smoked glasses. “It’s completely out of the question!”

“Fraternising?” Hostility rose off Crowley like smoke and Aziraphale’s heart sank even further.

“Well,” he blurted out, “whatever you wish to call it.” He took a shaky breath. “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

“I have lots of other people to _fraternise_ with, angel,” Crowley snarled, the bitterness in his words like a slap in the face.

“Of course you do!” Aziraphale snapped back, stung. He swung around, determined to put as much distance between them before Crowley could see the impact of his words.

“I don’t need you.”

Angrily, he swung around. “And the feeling is mutual! Obviously!” He hurled that damned stupid bit of paper with it’s stupid bloody request into the pond.

“Obviously!” Crowley mocked at his back as the angel stormed off back towards the path up to the palace.

How dare he? How _dare_ he! Making such impossible and stupid and reckless and– and– and _suicidal_ demands! As if Aziraphale wouldn’t have protected him if other demons came after him! As if he wouldn’t have played some silly trick just like Crowley had to keep him on earth and present and–

Damn him!

Aziraphale stormed onwards, up to the Mall and along and towards his home.

He didn’t need to breathe. Technically at all. And yet when he stormed back into his shop, he was huffing and puffing and his corporation’s hands were shaking.

What the hell was he meant to think? Was he meant to simply give Crowley a way to end his life? As if they weren’t– as if they hadn’t been–

“You _stupid_ demon!” he shouted into the empty bookshop. “You stupid, _stupid_ demon!”

He wrenched off his coat, throwing it down. Hat and gloves too. A drink and a good book and he would calm down. He would and everything would be fine and he wouldn’t have to think about stupid selfish demons and their idiotic demands and he wouldn’t need to even consider a world where there was a Crowley-shaped hole.

The crystal of his decanter rattled against the glass and he knocked back a finger of sherry, then another and another, as his breathing slowly, staggeringly, evened out.

“You stupid demon,” he said again, hoarse, softer. His eyes were burning and he blinked hard, pressing his lips together to keep them from trembling.

Please don’t ask me that, he screamed in silence. Please. Please don’t leave me alone.


	16. Lesson 16 - 1884

Even from the hallway, the sound of merriment could be heard, jaunty tunes picked out on a pianoforte and laughter and the hum of conversation in drink-mellowed voices. The entire place was a haven of mirth and merriment for those who needed respite from the world outside.

Sometimes, there was dancing.

Not tonight, though. More intimate arrangements were taking place and Aziraphale had no desire to be caught up in them.

He replaced his hat on his head as he stepped out into the street.

The autumn drizzle had turned the world to chilly grey, oddly apt after the colour and warmth of the club.

He had come across it entirely by accident, a couple of years earlier. A gentleman who had – to both their surprise – successfully purchased a book from Aziraphale’s shop had extended an invitation, suggesting that he might find some like-minded gentlemen in attendance.

Aziraphale had demurred at first, but after several more weeks of sitting alone in his shop every night… well, he why not, he had decided. Why not… fraternise with other people?

No. No, it wasn’t quite so petty as that. It was… it wasn’t…

He hadn’t imagined himself to be lonely. After all, he was perfectly at home with a good book and a fine wine and no distractions for days at a time.

Only, he had started to realise how often the earlier days had been filled with company. With laughter and teasing and – yes, he could admit it – with coitus. How he had become accustomed to the jangle of the bell as Crowley’s lanky form slithered into his shop.

He hadn’t heard from the demon since that unfortunate incident in the park more than twenty years earlier. Letters went unanswered. The Mayfair rooms lay empty. Strange how the absence lingered. After all, Aziraphale had done without it for years at a time before, but now, like a torn feather or the twist of a knife, it _ached_.

“Mr. Fell!” One of the young fellows from the club clattered up beside him. They were all charming boys, enthusiastic and educated. Bartholomew was a striking, gaunt creature with bright hazel eyes and a shock of golden hair. “Might I walk you home, sir?”

Aziraphale gazed at him.

A walk home often turned into a euphemism for something else, particular for the gentlemen who didn’t keep a household. Aziraphale had taken care not to walk home with anyone for that reason, but why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he indulge? No promises had been made, no loyalties sworn. The arrangement was purely a business matter and if it had fallen apart…

“I would be delighted,” he said, smiling as brightly as he could when the lad looped their arms together.

The stroll back to Soho was pleasant enough, despite the poor weather, but with every step closer to the shop, Aziraphale’s resolve wavered, his stomach turning. Bartholomew, oblivious, chattered amiably about the coming music night at the club and the quite extraordinary flautist they were expecting to attend.

It would’ve been the height of bad manners to turn the boy away at the door, though he couldn’t help but notice his hand shook on the handle as he let them both in. He drew away from Bartholomew to light the oil lamps, a horrible sensation spreading through him. Was this what he had become? Inviting amiable young humans to his shop for some kind of physical release? To spitefully push back against Crowley’s words?

“Mr. Fell?” Bartholomew touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Aziraphale glanced at the boy, stricken. “I’m dreadfully sorry, my dear,” he said, soft and unhappy. “I fear I’ve given you rather the wrong impression.”

Bartholomew nodded with a sympathetic smile. “It happens,” he said, then leaned in and pressed a chaste, gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. “I would rather not have you distressed on my account.” He stepped back and set his hat back on his golden head. “Should you change your mind, you know where you can find me.”

He walked the boy back to the door. “I’m sorry to have led you under false pretences.”

“If it’s too soon for you, there’s no harm.” The boy’s hazel eyes searched his face. “I’ve seen many a man dealing with a broken heart.”

“A broken–” Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh, no. No. Nothing so tragic.” He opened the door a little wider. “Thank you, dear boy.”

As soon as Bartholomew stepped out, he closed the door behind him and locked it. For a long moment, he stood there in silence, then fetched the smallest lamp and carried through the shop, encircled in a pale pool of flickering golden light.

His desk lay ready for him, a blank sheet of paper spread out, pen, ink and blotting powder all arranged just so.

The angel shed his coat and hat, hanging them up. A glass of brandy followed and once he set a record playing on the gramophone, he sat down at the desk.

It had become a habit, this. Not a diary per se, but…

_Dear Crowley. _

_The weather continues to be grey and bleak. It was much improved by an evening spent with my gentlemen friends at Portland Place. I know you would probably find the place dreadfully dull and no doubt laugh at me about it, but I find them very genial and enjoy the pleasure of the company of fellows who know their Homer from their Sophocles._

_One of them was kind enough to escort me back to the shop today. Such a well-intentioned young man, though he said_

Aziraphale stared down at the page.

He said...

He…

The angel shook his head. Nonsense. It was all nonsense.

He blotted the paper as it was, then lifted the glass off the lamp and touched the corner of the page to the flame. It took at once, licking its way greedily towards his fingertips, devouring words never intended to be read.

Aziraphale watched distantly as the paper curled up and blackened, then turned on his chair and lowered it to the heavy metal cinder pail that stood beside the desk, adding another layer of ash to those that had gone before.

He sat at the desk a little longer, hands folded on the surface, and only when the lamp started to dim did he rise and move to the couch.

Sleeping was not something he did, but sitting, he could do in abundance. So he sat, folding his hands one over the other in his lap, aware of everything from the patter of rain on the glass and the steady sonorous tick of the clock to the vacant space beside him on the couch.

He reached out, touching the comfortably softened leather, the shape worn in by one who had occupied it.

In the twilight gloom, the lamp went out.


	17. Lesson 17 - 1941

_Little demonic miracle of my own._

The heavy leather of the handle of the bag dug into Aziraphale’s palms. A blessing and a gift. His books, safe and protected and all in the midst of peril and the threat of discorporation. They should have been dust and ash. They weren’t.

How he’d stared.

He couldn’t help himself, not when a metaphorical as well as very literal bomb had gone off, this one somewhere in the middle of his ribs.

Crowley had come for him. Eight decades of silence. Eight decades of wondering if he would ever see the demon again, and the moment he was in danger, the threat so tangible he could taste the burn of gunpowder, there Crowley was. And he _saved_ him. And then his books. He knew – he _knew_ – what those books meant, how cherished they were, and had saved them for him.

In the dim light of the burning church, Crowley picked his way through the rubble. Limping, Aziraphale noticed, his hands shaking. Oh Heavens, of course he would be limping. He had come into a Church. He’d – oh Lord – the stupid, wretched, silly, wonderful creature had stepped on consecrated grounds for him, risking himself for someone who had treated him so glibly.

Oh, _Crowley_.

The chasm that had been widening for so long, the aching, painful void, was nothing but a crack now. It was him. It was _him_. Who he was. What he was. How he cared and how…

Aziraphale’s world trembled under him. And how he was loved.

That was it, wasn’t it?

A broken heart, the Portland lad had said, all those years ago. Was it really so obvious? He had been the only one who hadn’t noticed? Hadn’t realised? For Heaven’s sake, he was a creature of love. How had he failed to notice his own rising like a tide?

On the far side of the wreck and ruin, Crowley stood beside a sleek car and gazed back at him, flames dancing in the lenses of his glasses. “You coming, angel?”

On stumbling feet, Aziraphale made his way towards him, like a man who has stumbled through the desert to find water waiting to him. A beacon for him to follow. Oh Lord, he had been such a fool.

In spite of the chaos and the wails of the sirens, inside the car there was quiet. The angel held his bag close in his lap, trying to find words for all the tremendous mess of feelings that had rendered him speechless. And Crowley – bless him – understood. No meaningless chatter, just turning the car through the darkened streets of the city, searchlights cutting across the black sky like blades.

Soho lay dark and quiet as the car slid to a stop outside the bookshop.

Aziraphale dragged his thumb along the handle of the bag, daring a fleeting sidelong glance. Crowley had twisted in his seat, was looking at him, as he had so often in the past. So direct. So open. Never hiding his expression, not even with those ridiculous glasses.

“I have tea,” the angel offered tentatively. “Or perhaps something a little stronger.”

“Is that right?” The smile was audible in Crowley’s blastedly beloved voice.

Aziraphale’s smile shivered across his lips and he dared another glance. “And with the bombs falling, it would be better to be inside.”

Crowley’s answering smile was just as unsteady. “Sounds sensible.”

Together, they got out of the car and together, they walked to the shop.

Aziraphale had never been more aware of Crowley’s presence, a warm and living shadow at his back, though not touching. They hadn’t, barely more than a graze of their fingers as the demon handed him his books. And if that was what he preferred, then that was fine. It was… that…

Whatever kept them back on an even keel.

He unlocked the door, opening it and holding it for Crowley, watching as the thin spike of a demon tried to saunter inwards. The way he tried to hide his careful hobbling made Aziraphale’s heart ache. To not just come into a church, but to stand in one for several minutes while his feet were seared spoke of far too great an affection.

With shaking hands, the angel locked the door behind him and followed Crowley through into the body of the shop.

“Come through,” he said quietly, stepping around him. “I should put the books away.”

He set the bag on the desk, brushing the dust off it, and lit a candle, before lifting each book out in turn. He didn’t even risk looking around until the couch creaked and Crowley gave a satisfied groan.

“Can’t believe you still have this old thing,” he said.

Aziraphale looked over at him, slouched back, legs akimbo, his arms draped along the back.

“You know I’m a sentimental sort,” he murmured. “I hate letting go of anything I’m fond of.”

Crowley’s crooked grin softened. “I remember.” He waggled a finger towards the desk. “Books, for example.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale ran his thumb along the cover of the Mother Shipton volume. “I’m very glad to have them back with me.”

Crowley swayed slightly. “Angel…”

Aziraphale put the book down and cleared his throat. “Tea?” he said, his voice cracking. “Or would you prefer wine? Or a nice sherry?”

“Whatever you fancy.”

It wasn’t cowardice to flee into the snug little kitchenette or to take a bit of time to make tea, not when his heart was pounding like a percussion section and the thought – the emotion – welling up through him was making him feel more than a little light-headed.

While the kettle boiled, he divested himself of hat and coat and rolled up his sleeves.

Instead of cups and saucers, he set two sturdy mugs on the tray and added a deep jelly bowl filled with ice-cool water and a dash of antiseptic. He draped a towel over his shoulder and, bearing it all through, he didn’t hesitate before sinking onto his knees at Crowley’s feet.

Crowley went still. “What are you up to?”

“Your feet were burned,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“Pfft. S’nothing!”

Aziraphale looked up at him. “Crowley.” He couldn’t ask for permission, couldn’t give voice to the plea, say the words that weren’t allowed.

A muscle spasmed in Crowley’s thin face, but he nodded. “Fine,” he grumbled, rocking his head back on the couch. “Fuss away.”

“Are these shoes or…”

The laces, soles and trim all melted away, leaving Crowley’s feet bare and thin on the threadbare carpet. He sat, rigid as a statue as Aziraphale gently rolled up his trouser legs and lifted one of his feet into the jelly bowl, a sharp hiss of air eking between his teeth.

“Bad?”

Crowley bared his teeth, but wiggled his toes in the water. “Better.”

Aziraphale hesitated, then dipped his hands into the bowl, gently smoothing his fingertips along the sole of Crowley’s foot to brush off any debris and dust. Crowley jolted with a yelp and Aziraphale wrenched his hands back at once.

“Sorry!”

“Ngh!” Crowley shoved himself up a bit on the couch. “Ticklish!”

The angel stared at him, then started laughing. Completely gave way to it, shaking and pressing his dripping hands onto his thighs. Crowley pulled a face at him and that only made things worse, as if nearly a century of emotion had popped open, like a well-shaken bottle of champagne.

He sagged forwards, bracing his hands on either side of Crowley’s thighs, dropping his brow to rest on Crowley’s knees.

A painfully long moment later, fingers gently carded through his hair, and the heaving helpless laughter gave way to something else, something far more raw and sharp and painful.

“S’all right,” Crowley said softly, stroking his hand in soothing circles.

Aziraphale eventually pulled himself back up on his knees, staring up at him. “It’s all right,” he echoed through a voice roughened as if he had swallowed ground glass. He swiped damp hands over his cheeks and sniffed hard again. “You… your feet.” He flapped a hand. “Other one. Into the water.”

In the distance, beyond brick and window, the sirens were wailing again, but Aziraphale paid them no mind. As carefully as he could, he cleaned – deliberately not tickling – the grime from Crowley’s feet. Ash and dirt and chemicals and sharp jagged holy shards. Once or twice, falling drops struck the surface of the water, casting ripples.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” Crowley murmured as the angel laid out the towel in his lap and gently lifted each of Crowley’s sore feet onto the fluffy white surface.

“It can wait.”

He dried each foot in turn and smoothed cooling ointment into the heated skin, working down from the juts of delicate bone in those familiar and slender ankles to the curl of his heel and the blistered tender curve of his instep. He dabbed between each long toe, smoothing the towel up and over the top of each foot too.

At last, he circled his hands around Crowley’s narrow ankles, warm bracelets pressing against the cool skin. “How’s that?” he asked as steadily as he could, grazing his thumbs up and down Crowley’s shins.

“Much better.”

He looked up to find golden eyes fixed on him.

“You shouldn’t put any weight on them tonight,” he said, looking back down. They knew the game. They knew the rules. The delicate dance of the unspoken. “Let them heal up a bit first.”

Crowley exhaled a slow breath. “Yeah. That’s probably for the best.”

The wave of relief was dizzying and Aziraphale pressed his thumbs gently in wordless gratitude. The same language and the same page, despite everything that had happened.

Crowley wiggled his toes against the angel’s thighs. “Mind if I take the couch?”

Aziraphale smiled, the weight of decades slipping away as he lifted his eyes. “Of course not.”

With a bit of squirming and shifting on both their parts, Aziraphale managed to lift Crowley’s washed and anointed feet up onto the couch. The demon shed his coat and, of course, threw an arm over his head, striking the most ridiculous of poses as he fell onto his back.

“I feel like I’ve had an attack of the vapours,” he said, his crooked grin still a little brittle around the edges.

“You really ought to be in an excessively frilly frock for that.” Aziraphale tucked a cushion under his heels, wincing at the sight of the reddened and swollen skin. He picked up the damp towel and gathered up the bowl and cups. “Do you need anything else to drink? Or eat?”

Crowley shook his head, the red of his hair stark against the worn leather of the arm. “I’m fine.”

Aziraphale nodded, his own smile wobbling off his lips. He turned briskly, hurrying back through to the kitchen and set the tray down before it slipped from his shaking hands. He pressed his fingertips to his lips, taking steadying breaths and squeezing his eyes shut. Why did he feel so close to falling apart, when Crowley was there and with him and… and…

“Angel.”

Not a shout. Not even more than a whisper, really.

The angel hastily tugged his waistcoat back into order, straightened his tie, and turned around with what was left of the smile on his face. “Yes, dear?”

Crowley had rolled onto his side and gazed up at him. Mutely, he patted the couch cushion in front of him.

“I should really tidy up,” Aziraphale stammered. “I mean– I just–” The words hitched and he had to take a steadying breath.

“No funny business,” Crowley said quietly. “Just… I missed you.”

Of all the things he could have said, it seemed that was the worst, and the frayed threads of Aziraphale’s restraint gave way. He crossed the room in four quick steps, falling to his knees again beside the couch and clutching at Crowley’s hand, pressing his lips to the demon’s sharp knuckles as his words died in his throat, gone and forgotten.

Crowley stooped over him, pressing his brow to Aziraphale’s.

Little by little, the angel found himself drawn from kneeling to curling on the couch, spooned back against Crowley’s chest, hugging a thin and freckled hand to his heart. His thumb tracked over Crowley’s knuckles one by one.

“You’re very cold,” he murmured.

“Ngh.” Crowley squirmed a little closer to him. “You’re warm.”

“Still…” A snap of his fingers and they were both draped in a blanket each, both rich, one in red and gold, the other in blue and silver.

“So you can escape, eh?” Crowley teased, drawing his hand free to tug the blue cover up over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The wound still felt too tender for even such gentle probing. “I-I thought it might be nice for us both to have one.”

He felt the tentative tug of a smile against his throat. “It is. And means I won’t steal all the covers again.”

Aziraphale groped up to capture his hand again, pulling it to his lips and kissing his fingers, brief and hard. Words were rapidly slipping away again and as Crowley wrapped himself around Aziraphale, he blurted out into the quiet, “I missed you too.”

An infinitely gentle kiss touched the soft skin just below his ear. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And to all the lovely people who commented on the last chapter, my response to your lamentations about poor Aziraphale is this - MWAHAHAHAHAhAHA :D)


	18. Lesson 18 - 1967

Aziraphale’s hands were still shaking as he hurried to the shop, fumbling the key in the lock several times before getting the door open. He closed it behind him, leaning against the solid wood, his heart thundering painfully fast.

It was done.

It was _done_.

He had broken a cardinal rule, giving a divine weapon to _Crowley_. A flask of the purest of Holy Water, sanctified and blessed on the threshold of Heaven with his own two hands. But even as he had done it, it wasn’t a weapon. Not for him. Not for Crowley.

Oh, it was so much more than that.

That simple tartan flask – and its powerful contents – was a promise, clear and loud as the blast of trumpets. Let humans have their rings and their tokens. They didn’t need to understand. Only one person needed to and… and he _did_. He must do.

The angel ran trembling fingers over his lips.

They didn’t _do_ that. Not tangible symbols. Never anything that could be carried. Their tokens were meals taken, cups shared, a kindness here or there, nothing more. Nothing that anyone could find or suspect or accuse. And now, he had…

Crowley would keep it safe. Of course he would. He knew the value – the danger – of it.

And yet, he couldn’t find it in his heart to regret it, not a jot. Yes, Crowley’s rash actions had forced his hand. For Heaven’s sake, trying to rob a church? It was so reckless and foolish and Aziraphale hadn’t been able to sit, waiting, dreading, not knowing if he would survive.

And so, the flask and a quiet word under the garish lights of Soho.

_Don’t leave me. Don’t hurt yourself. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way. Let me spare you. Let me save you. Don’t go. Not again._

A thousand words said with barely a syllable spoken.

“You did the right thing,” the angel told himself softly. “He’s safe now.”

Still, as he retreated into the depths of his shop, it felt like a fitting time to indulge in a spot of liquid courage to calm his racing heart. He sat, still and quiet, in the corner of the couch, drawing the red and gold blanket around his shoulders. The threads of the weave glistened almost as brightly as the stray hairs that clung to it here and there.

Aziraphale ran his thumb down the cloth, shoulders sagging slowly as hours and days of tension slowly dissolved.

It was done.

He had _done_ it.

The dead weight of an albatross around his neck had vanished, the relief of certainty so tangible that – for once – he slouched down into the couch. His eyes pricked, but he ignored it, sipping his gin and then sitting and cradling the empty glass as the bustle and business of the streets went on beyond the dimpled glass of his windows.

Little by little, he gathered himself, though his mind kept running in circles. There were books to sort and catalogue. That always helped divert him, even if – as Crowley cheerfully complained all the time – there was no evidence that he had ever done such a thing.

He smiled crookedly as he set aside his empty glass and made his way through into the shop.

Of course he knew the location of every book, even if Crowley couldn’t tell. It might seem like chaos, but the kind of organised chaos he managed well. And perhaps it was a little… naughty of him, but sometimes, he liked to bask in Crowley’s rants about the state of the place.

Yes, he would sort the books and then maybe have a spot of tea or some nibbles.

Some time later, he heard the door rattle and the jangle of the bell above it, the chilly rush of the damp night air accompanied by a familiar tang of wood smoke and sulphur.

“Crowley?” he called cautiously.

“S’me,” Crowley called back.

Aziraphale’s heart ascended to his throat, lodging there. Yes, of course they were going to see one another again, but he hadn’t imagine it would be tonight, only a couple of hours since their little encounter and certainly not–

Crowley slunk around the end of the block of shelves, leaning against it, tilting his head against the polished wood. “All right, angel?”

Aziraphale tried to ignore the heat blossoming up his cheeks. “I thought you would be… occupied.”

“Popped home,” Crowley murmured, motionless and – despite his glasses, Aziraphale could always tell – his eyes fixed on the angel. “Had to lock things up securely.”

“Oh good.” Aziraphale glanced down at the stack of books in his arms. “I– ah– I’ll just put these away, shall I?” He fumbled for the ladder, climbing up the broad, flat rungs and started shoving the books haphazardly into the shelf.

Crowley slid a little closer, never looking away from him. Lord, his gaze was as searing as a brand. “Is it okay?” he asked abruptly. “Me, being here? Now?”

Aziraphale nearly dropped the book in his hand. “Of course, dear,” he gabbled. “Why wouldn’t it be? I mean, after all, we– nothing has– it’s all _fine_.”

“Angel.”

Leaning against the upper rungs of the ladder, Aziraphale self-consciously shifted his remaining burden. “I didn’t expect you tonight, that’s all,” he admitted softly. “I… it’s all been… rather a lot and I didn’t– I’m– it’s all rather silly.”

A long-fingered hand curled over the back of his calf, just below his knee. “I know.” Two words, loaded with meaning.

He looked down at Crowley, standing beside the ladder, gazing up at him. Felt the gentle stroke of Crowley’s thumb, brushing the crease of his trousers against the back of his knee.

“Could you…” He bit his lip, then tried again. “Would you distract me? My head is dreadfully busy and–”

Crowley’s hand slid up the back of his thigh and squeezed. “Course, angel. Whatever you want.” One side of his mouth crooked up. “You might want to put those books down.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh! Oh yes! Of course!” He moved to descend, but was stopped by Crowley’s grip on his thigh. “What are–”

Crowley swung onto the ladder, slithering up to press to his back. “Distracting you.” He nuzzled at Aziraphale’s ear. “Books down.”

For the first time in his long life, Aziraphale shoved the books any old where, drawing a breath between his teeth as Crowley’s tongue teased his ear and sharp teeth nipped at his lobe. Long hands settled on his hips, holding him steady.

“Hands up,” Crowley purred, the words a thrumming hum against his skin. “Hold onto the rail.”

The rail?

Aziraphale lifted his eyes. Oh. Right. Yes. The long metal rail that allowed the ladder to slide from one end of the shelves to the other. He clasped between the ladder’s legs, the brass smooth and cool against his palms.

“I’ve got an idea,” Crowley murmured, one hand meandering up over his chest and tugging at his ascot.

“Oh?” Aziraphale shivered pleasantly as the knot came loose and the fine silk was drawn out, dragging against the back of his neck.

“Mm.” Abruptly, Crowley’s arms were framing his and smooth silk threaded up and under, coiling around his wrists and pulling snug, binding him to the rail.

“Oh!” He tugged and felt the give. Not even tight. Barely more than a loose wrap. If he wanted to, he could shake them off in a moment. Little more than a gesture, a symbol, a playful hint at control. “Oh, that’s lovely.”

“Yeah?” Crowley’s smile brushed his cheek and he tilted his head to capture it. He craned his neck, moaning into Crowley’s parting lips, licking at them greedily, demandingly and shivering as Crowley dragged his hands back down, splaying them across the angel’s chest.

As Crowley coiled around him, his kisses teasing and playful, his nimble fingers pinched and twisted the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and shirt open, one by one. His kisses trailed down, back to the angel’s throat, bruising nips and bites no doubt leaving a thread of delicious marks.

“I,” Crowley breathed, cool on the damp skin, “am going to distract the living daylights out of you.” His hand delved between cloth and flesh, thumbnail scratching playfully over Aziraphale’s nipple, making him jolt. “That sound all right to you?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale’s teeth sank into his lip as Crowley’s other hand fisted into his hair, dragging his head back, making the ladder sway beneath them.

It felt deliciously illicit, restrained and unsteady, trusting Crowley’s hands to steady him.

Under Crowley’s careful attentions, his shirt and waistcoat gaped wider and wider, the cool of the shop and the warmth of Crowley’s hand a delicious juxtaposition. Sharp teeth pressed pinpricks down the taut arc of his throat, heat coursing through him as Crowley teased at his nipples with callused fingertips.

Beneath them, the ladder creaked as he shifted his weight, desire and heat pooling low in his belly.

“What–” The word hitched as Crowley nosed aside his collar and sucked a throbbing mark into the meat of his shoulder. “What do you prefer?”

“Ngh?” A long, hot lick striped from shoulder to ear and Aziraphale shivered as Crowley suckled on his earlobe.

“A-Adam or Eve?”

The widening smile was tangible against his cheek as Crowley rubbed into him like a cat. “Gentleman’s choice.”

At once, Aziraphale’s trousers grew tighter with the swell of Adam’s part and Crowley ran his chin along Aziraphale’s shoulder as he dipped his hand down, shaping him through the fabric. Even that gentle squeeze had Aziraphale rocking his hips forward, pressing into the heat demandingly.

“Let me…”

As deftly as the shirt had been undone, the fly of the trousers opened under Crowley’s hand and Aziraphale had to bite back a low moan as Crowley’s fingers wrapped around him through his underwear and _squeezed_.

“Hold on,” Crowley breathed close to his ear, then slithered down Aziraphale’s body, dragging the loosened trousers with him. The ladder shook as he stepped off, his hands ghosting delicious down the back of Aziraphale’s thighs and calves, chasing the folds of his trousers downwards.

Aziraphale very nearly slammed into the ladder when a heated kiss pressed to the exposed back of his knee. “Crowley!”

The demon chuckled, making matters worse by snaking out his tongue and licking teasing pattens into his skin. “Foot up, angel,” he said suddenly, with a tap to Aziraphale’s calf. As soon as Aziraphale obeyed, Crowley slipped his shoe and trouser-leg off, then relocated his lips to Aziraphale’s other knee.

“That’s ticklish!” Aziraphale protested breathlessly, squirming and shifting his leg.

Crowley wrapped his fingers around his calf, holding him still. “I know,” he said wickedly, then sucked on the tender skin. Aziraphale yelped, hips leaping forward, his hands clenching around the brass rail. The bruising mark was soothed with a sensuous flick of a forked tongue, and another tap touched the front of his calf. Breathing hard, Aziraphale lifted his other foot.

The press of his sock-clad feet on the embossed rungs of the ladder, the brush of bare wood against exposed skin, and Crowley’s warm hands returning to frame his lower thighs…

“Crowley,” he breathed out. “A moment.”

For a heartbeat, there was stillness, then the ladder shivered again as Crowley swarmed up the inside of it, his feet mirroring Aziraphale’s on the rungs, until they were face to face. “Distracted yet?” he teased and, bracing his shoulders back against the bookshelves, somehow managed to weave his arm around to bury his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, tugging gently.

Aziraphale leaned into his touch, breathing unsteadily. “Quite.” He gazed at Crowley, half-blotted by his own shadow, the fond curve of a smile under that thatch of flaming hair. “I’m glad you came,” he confided in a whisper. “I…I didn’t know if you would.”

“Like a bad penny, me,” Crowley said with a flash of a grin. “Always turn up.” He searched Aziraphale’s face. “What d’you fancy?”

“I don’t– I can’t–” Aziraphale shook his head imploringly. “Just… distract me?”

Crowley’s expression softened. “Course.” He traced the shell of Aziraphale’s ear with his fingertip. “You have enough, then say stop and we stop.”

“Stop and we stop,” Aziraphale agreed, relieved beyond the telling to hand over all control, to let himself just… pause for a moment. He nodded again, breathing in slow and deep.

Crowley must have dipped his other hand between the rungs, for warm fingers slipped beneath Aziraphale’s underpants, taking him in hand, and stroking everso gently, as if to rouse him. Though truly, he barely needed it, his part already hard and slickening itself.

After years without, they were still finding their way back to a new normal and relearning one another. Sometimes, even a simple kiss on the neck was enough to get him up and running, though he would never _ever_ admit that aloud. A hand on him was very nearly enough to…

The angel’s eyes quivered shut, his breath catching. “Oh, that’s very good,” he murmured, turning his head to kiss Crowley’s other palm.

“Enough of a moment?” Crowley asked, sounding a little hoarser.

Aziraphale nodded with a last kiss to his palm, and Crowley’s hands dropped away as he scrambled back down the ladder. The angel’s head fell forward to rest against his bound arms and he took a quivering breath as Crowley’s hands teased up the back of his thighs, over his buttocks and dragged his shirttail and waistcoat upwards.

The searingly hot kiss against his spine sent a pang through him and it took all his will to stop his hips rolling again.

“I… may not last long,” he confided.

“Didn’t ask you to.” Crowley sounded ineffably smug as he pushed down the waistband of Aziraphale’s underthings downwards, following their descent with lazy scatters of kisses and licks, until his tongue threaded beneath the waistband, lashing suddenly at the crease of Aziraphale’s buttocks. The angel keened into his arms, his hands tightening on the rail.

A gentle push sent his underthings dropping to his ankles and Crowley nudged his calf again in wordless prompt. One foot, then the other, slid free and they were tossed aside a split second before Crowley’s hands pressed to his backside, and Crowley _licked_ from low between his thighs all the way to his tailbone_._

“Oh Lord!” Aziraphale moaned into his arms.

Crowley laved him again, that marvellous, clever, wicked tongue of his delving in, his grip mercilessly holding Aziraphale open to his delicious invasion. And Crowley knew him well enough to know precisely where to flick with his tongue, where to press deeper. The angel shuddered, his part aching with need, and he faltered, shifting one foot out and up a rung, splaying himself shamelessly wider.

Behind him, Crowley uttered a soft groan, drawing back from his task and pressing his cheek to Aziraphale’s backside. “Fuck, angel…” he murmured.

“Yes.” It slipped out before Aziraphale could stop it.

Crowley’s breath washed over his bare skin in a gust. “Soon,” he promised, then scorched a kiss to Aziraphale’s tailbone, before plunging his mouth down again. One of his hand wound over Aziraphale’s hip, fumbling beneath his shirt to find his part, but instead of stroking, his fingers closed snug around the base, stifling and aching and oh so much better and worse.

“Oh no…” Aziraphale moaned, trying to rock – uselessly – against his grip. “Crowley…”

“Sssssssssoon,” hissed across his skin, before that pronged tongue ravished him again.

“You tease,” Aziraphale whined, squirming against his hand and his mouth. “You terrible, terrible tease!”

The vibration of Crowley’s laughter shivered through him and he buried his face in his arms, the heat of his cheeks palpable through the fabric of his sleeves.

“I– you said–” he mumbled, kneading against the rail. “Didn’t ask me to last!”

Two fingers stroked under the balls of his part, but Crowley’s grip didn’t ease. “I didn’t,” Crowley agreed and bit him gently on the buttock. “But didn’t say I’d let you off so easily.” He bit again, harder, then sucked and sweet Christ, the spike of heat that shot through Aziraphale felt like lightning, his toes curling against the rungs.

“Oh Heavens!”

Crowley kissed the lovingly bruised flesh, as if to seal it. “I’m going to leave my mark _all_ over you, angel,” he whispered, every word throbbing through Aziraphale like fire. “Every inch. And in the morning, you’re going to look down and see it and think of me.”

Aziraphale moaned, hips stuttering helplessly against Crowley’s grip.

Warm lips brushed against his inner thigh, then _stang_.

“Oh!” Aziraphale yelped, the ladder rattling with the force of his jolt.

“Oi!” Crowley laughed against his skin, his hands briefly falling away. Aziraphale very nearly wrenched his own hand free and took hold of himself, but the ladder creaked again and Crowley’s hand closed on him again, this time from below.

The angel parted his arms as much as he could, peering between them.

Crowley grinned up at him, perched on the rung beside Aziraphale’s lower foot. “Lovely view, angel.”

Aziraphale huffed and knocked the demon’s arm with his other foot. “You’re being dreadful,” he complained, adding a little of a pout for good measure.

Instead of backchatting, Crowley turned his head and latched onto the meat of Aziraphale’s inner thigh, moaning happily as he sucked another pulse-pounding mark mere inches from Aziraphale’s restrained and dripping part.

“Crowley!”

The demon glanced up over the rims of his glasses, then moved up an inch and _sucked_.

“Ngh!” Aziraphale pressed his cheek into the meat of his upper arm, push-pulling futilely against Crowley’s hand for any kind of friction or pressure or release. It _ached_. Hot and throbbing and pulsing through him, his thighs quivering.

That wicked forked tongue lashed over each fresh mark as Crowley deliciously – agonisingly – perfectly inched his way inexorably closer.

When his tongue darted so very briefly over the tip of Aziraphale’s part, the angel let out a helpless wail at the thundering need burning through him. “Crowley… Crowley, please…”

Another bite landed on his belly, so close that his part grazed with frustratingly wonderful pressure against Crowley’s cheek. A hiss of air slipped between Aziraphale’s teeth, his upper foot jerking on the rung of the ladder.

“Insufferable tease!” he gasped out, pressing his wrists against the silk of his ascot. It would be so easy to pull himself free, but that was half the pleasure, wasn’t it? Letting Crowley take him apart a mouthful at a time, making him squirm and forget himself entirely. And he was taking his…

Crowley’s fingers closed around his part, sliding the skin like a silken mesh around the solid, aching core and the demon dipped his head down, tonguing between the constraining fingers of his other hand to curve around Aziraphale’s testicles. Slow, lazy, utterly indulgent licks.

Oh Lord, Aziraphale thought dizzily, _taking his time_. Utterly and deliberately not going too fast.

He parted his arms a crack, peering between them at the demon below him.

Crowley flashed a wicked smile at him, then took his part in his mouth. It _ached_, oh how it ached, throbbing with every lazy, measured suck. Aziraphale was startled by the wanton growl that tumbled through him, his hips jabbing relentlessly, trying to break Crowley’s grip.

Under them, the ladder wobbled and Crowley’s warm chuckle rippled against him, as he moved the wandering hand to steady Aziraphale, stilling him, holding him fast as he bobbed that copper head of his tantalisingly up and down.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale made a sound somewhere between a whine and a groan. “You– don’t–”

His whole body was thrumming, the pulse of want centred low and hard and his legs were beginning to tremble. Crowley must’ve noticed the way his upper foot slipped, because without warning, the grip on his part loosened and in one fell suck, Aziraphale cried out as he spent himself, hot and fast, on Crowley’s tongue.

Hard and fast enough that Crowley reared back, spluttering and laughing. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, peering up through the gap between Aziraphale’s arms.

Aziraphale huffed out a shaking breath, ribs heaving. “Wicked beast,” he panted.

Crowley grinned up at him, his hands splaying on the angel’s thighs to steady him. “Bet you say that to all the guys.” He tilted his head to kiss Aziraphale’s thigh, then leaned forward to scatter feathery kisses across Aziraphale’s belly.

With his body still thrumming from his release, every peck of contact was like a pebble in a pond, fresh ripples making goosebumps spread across his skin. Even worse when Crowley’s fingers traced a breath-soft path up and over his hip, meandering in circles on his backside.

“Need some more distracting?” Crowley inquired innocently, running his fingertip down the crease of Aziraphale’s buttocks.

Aziraphale laughed unsteadily. “Well,” he pressed the words out, “you _did_ say soon.”

Crowley’s tongue flicked out, licking one sharp canine. “I did, didn’t I?” With a last kiss to Aziraphale’s belly – and a ticklish flick of his tongue into the unnecessary navel – he slithered down and out of sight.

Aziraphale dropped his head forward to rest his brow on his forearms again, breathing hard, then yelped in surprise when lips brushed his calf, just below his sock garter.

“Don’t you kick me!” Crowley called up.

The angel craned to peer over his shoulder, his heart giving a peculiar flop at the sight of Crowley on his knees on the floor at the foot of the ladder. And he forgot all about staring when a gentle bite closed on the muscle, followed by the delicious stinging suction.

Marks all over, he remembered giddily, biting his lip as Crowley continued to be true to his word. Licks skirting his sock garters. Slow, tender nibbles. Sharp stinging bruising bites. All enough to have his leg trembling under Crowley’s patient and utterly relentless ministrations.

Little by little, his shivering legs began to fold, the upper sagging to kneel on a higher rung. Aziraphale couldn’t even lift his head, ragged little puffs of air vibrating the fabric of his sleeves an inch from his eyes.

Crowley’s cheek rasped ticklishly against his thigh. “Too much?”

Aziraphale tried to speak, but the only sound that came out was “Aghnu…”

Abruptly, that lovely warm shadow plastered itself against his back. “How about,” Crowley murmured against his ear, “I get you to the couch and we finish things there? Because I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to catch you if you slip off the rungs.”

Aziraphale swayed back into him, nodding. “Mm.”

Sharp teeth nipped at his neck like a localised lightning strike and he exhaled shakily as Crowley reached up and loosened the ascot from around his wrists. It took him more effort than he cared to admit to pry his fingers off the rail. Crowley guided him down the ladder a rung at a time, steadying him with both hands modestly at his waist.

“Think you can manage a few steps?”

Splay-footed, like a duck walking on ice, Aziraphale tottered through to the back-shop with a stabilising arm at his waist. His words were still being utterly useless, but Crowley seemed to understand the small and plaintive sounds he was making.

His descent onto the couch was less grace and more his legs giving way entirely, spilling him back against the tangle of red and gold blanket. Crowley slid down to kneel between his helplessly spilled legs, hands curving over Aziraphale’s thighs, whether to hold them still or push them wider, Aziraphale couldn’t be sure.

“Stop?” Crowley asked quietly, thumbs walking in circles, ever closer to the crease of his hips.

The angel stared at him, his lovely face, the warm softness of his expression. He could stop. Shoo Crowley into the night. But he didn’t want to. He wanted him and all of him, the damned silly darling who he loved far more than he should.

Wordlessly, he reached down and dragged Crowley’s palm back between his thighs. The shift of his effort made him tense in concentration, but then warm fingers slid against his already slick folds.

“Both,” he breathed.

It was always a pleasure to see Crowley flush like a milkmaid. “Really? You don’t have to.”

Aziraphale gave him a _look_.

Crowley grinned crookedly, stroking his fingers gently along Aziraphale’s Eve’s part. “Yeah, okay, you don’t do anything you don’t want to do.” He pulled his hand away, kneeling up and Aziraphale’s heartbeat skittered at the sound of Crowley’s trousers rustling open. Crowley glanced downwards, then looked back at him. “Both? It’ll be thicker than usual.”

With what little stamina he had left, Aziraphale dragged one calf up behind Crowley’s tragically-covered backside and pushed him forwards.

Hot, hard parts slid gracelessly against Aziraphale’s, the thrumming sensitivity making him hiss between his teeth.

“All right! All right!” Crowley fumbled between them, positively alight with warmth.

The deep press as he pushed into Aziraphale’s body made the angel shudder, pressing his eyes closed and his head against the back of the couch. It _was_ thicker, but his body was slick and wanton and oh, the press and stretch of it dragged ragged little gasps from him as Crowley inched deeper.

He forced his eyes open, breathing far too hard, drinking in the rapt expression on Crowley’s face as he watched his parts slip inwards. His bony fingers sank into the meat of Aziraphale’s hips, as if the force of his hips wasn’t enough, as if he had to pull Aziraphale’s body onto his. The greedy pinch of his fingers was breath-taking and Aziraphale groped down for one of his hands, squeezing.

Startled, Crowley jerked forward and both of them gasped out as they fitted together, lock and key, breathing raggedly together.

Crowley lifted his head, staring at him. “All right?”

A lot, so much. Different thoughts, more intense, a low deep rumble from the very core of him. He beckoned with shaking fingers, moaning as Crowley’s mouth covered his and the shift in his body dragged him out a little. And again he groaned as Crowley burrowed back in, so very filling, dizzyingly so.

Soft licks to his mouth and hands hot on his hips and Crowley slowly, slowly began to move. Drag and press, sinuous rolls of hips to his, skin slapping on skin as tongue dipped against tongue, breaths exchanged in increasing frantic puffs. Aziraphale groped at Crowley’s forearms, gripping them, sliding down, finding clever clutching hands, clung to them, lifting himself as much as he could to meet the deeper and more urgent thrusts.

“Fuck, angel…” Crowley gasped into his mouth as fingers tangled on bare, soft skin. Scratching. Bruising.He dragged both legs up, wrapping them around, pulling closer, deeper, harder, both moving and shuddering. Crowley ripped a hand free, tore off his glasses, eye-to-eye, staring, drinking him in.

“Ngh!” Aziraphale gasped, arching up to claim his lips again, Crowley’s fingers sinking into his hair, cradling his head, kissing and kissing and crying out his release, the pulse of it within him sending spasms of pleasure through Aziraphale, his own cries swallowed by Crowley’s eager lips.

And little by little, Crowley gently lowered him back against the back of the couch, still buried deep in him, both of them spattered and sodden and sated. Crowley sagged over him, buttons of his jacket pressing into the exposed skin of Aziraphale’s belly. Didn’t mind. Didn’t care. Puff of red hair on his shoulder, warm breaths on his throat.

“Fuck…” Crowley murmured again, lips brushing his collarbone. Then he chuckled. “You’ve just ruined my bloody trousers.”

Aziraphale smiled drowsily, rubbing his cheek against Crowley’s brow. “You were hoisted,” he murmured, “on your own petard.”

Crowley snorted and lifted his head, all flushed and mussed and smiling. “I think you’ll find you were hoisted on both of mine.”

Aziraphale really did try to give him an arch look. “Oh, _really_, dear.” Still, his lips betrayed him and they met each other’s eyes and dissolved into helpless laughter.


	19. Lesson 19 - 2008

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Summerofspock for who listened when the brain stalled and let me throw smutty ideas at her until something stuck.

Quite aside from how the day had started, it had turned into a compelling night. Very tipsy, that was true, but they were perfectly sensible and sober now. And Crowley was making some very good points. After all, the Antichrist _had_ been born, which – Aziraphale felt – meant he had to do _something_.

“It’s the upbringing that’s important,” Crowley insisted, leaning so far forward on the arm of the couch that he was practically tipping off it. “The influences. The evil influences, that’s all going to be me.” He met Aziraphale’s eyes, holding them as he swayed, gently serpentine. “It’d be too bad if someone made sure that I failed.”

Oh, he was very clever, wasn’t he? All charm and misdirection, but when he needed to, he would find a way around matters, a solution to the dilemma that could keep them _both_ out of trouble.

“If you put it that way,” Aziraphale said. Carefully, carefully. One didn’t want to tread too far, too fast, not over such a precarious thought, “Heaven couldn’t actually object if I was _thwarting_ you.”

“No,” Crowley agreed, perfectly straight-faced. This was a knife edge again. They’d had one centuries before, when the arrangement came into being, when need and want and business all balanced in a blade of a hair’s breadth. “It’d be a real feather in your wing.”

Aziraphale gazed across at him, watching Crowley sway slowly from side to side. He was anxious and, for a change, very clearly so.

And so, the angel knew, the decision rested with him. All Crowley’s arguments laid out before him– and with them, the unspoken plea for help, to save the world that they both enjoyed so much – on one hand. The Great Plan, as decreed by Heaven, on the other.

But Crowley was right. The Divine Plan would happen, regardless, and the least he could do as a Good Angel was try and prevent the destruction of the world. After all, he was a principality! And their jobs, first and foremost, were to protect humanity!

He took a breath, then leaned forwards, offering his hand.

Crowley very visibly squashed down a smile as he reached across the gap and took Aziraphale’s hand in his, the tension dissipating from his body in a heartbeat.

“We’ve be Godfathers,” he said, rocking back with a pleased little look on his face. “Sort of.” He made a grand gesture with his hands. “Overseeing his upbringing.”

Oh and wasn’t that a lovely thought?

“F’we do it right, he won’t be evil,” Crowley continued, clearly delighted that they had a plan and it was going ahead. “Or good! He’s just… just be normal.”

His exuberance was catching. “It might work,” Aziraphale agreed, unable to fight down a smile. “Godfathers.” He chuckled. “I’ll be damned.”

“S’not that bad when you get used to it,” Crowley said with a wink.

Aziraphale huffed at him. “Oh, really, my dear. That was in poor taste.”

The demon grinned, rocking happily on the arm of the couch. “Don’t act so surprised! You know I can’t resist the low-hanging fruit.” He braced both hands on the arm of the couch between his splayed knees. “But you know what this whole charade means, don’t you?”

“That we’ll have to be cautious?” Aziraphale guessed. “I presume your people have people on hand to keep an eye on him?”

“Well…” Crowley waved vaguely towards himself. “And a couple of hangers on. But apart from that. We’re technically not meant to be able to notice or recognise each other.”

A joyful thought bubbled up, buoying Aziraphale’s mood even higher. “Disguise!” he gasped. “We’ll have to go undercover!”

“Nothing over the top!” Crowley warned, jabbing a finger at him. “None of those ridiculous curly moustaches and things.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose delicately. “I can’t help thinking you’re trying to rain on my parade.”

“We’re trying _not_ to be noticed,” Crowley retorted, though he was grinning. “It has to be subtle. Something that they won’t pay attention to.” He slid off the arm of the couch, cascading down onto the seat again. “They’ve got an opening for a Nanny, so I’ll go for that. Means downstairs know I’m there and promoting his dad’s agenda any time his parents aren’t around.”

The angel nodded ponderously. “Who else would have access to him?”

“House staff,” Crowley said at once. “They’ve got some positions opening up in the embassy since the family’ll be moving in.” A wicked curl crooked his mouth up. “D’you think you could manage to be the head cook? Or is that putting the fox in the hen house?”

“Oh do be quiet, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, put out. “I’m not _that_ bad.” He paused and sheepishly corrected, “And I do suspect they would get bored of shop-bought crumpets and jam. I’m not very good at the whole… cooking thing.”

Crowley laughed. “Easier to have other people make it for you.” He slouched back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “We don’t want anything that people pay too much attention to. Definitely not doormen or buttling or anything like that.” He shuddered. “They’d probably love having their own personal Jeeves.”

“And I’m not meant to be there for them anyway,” Aziraphale agreed. “Someone out of the way. Is there anyone they wouldn’t pay attention to?”

Crowley scratched ponderously at his chin. “If they’re wealthy Americans, any of the help, really. Don’t want to notice the people working under you.” A grin lit his face. “We could make you a groundskeeper!”

“Me?” Aziraphale eyed him doubtfully. “But I don’t really know much about gardens.”

“Don’t have to,” Crowley replied. “I mean, that’s not what you’re there for.” He sat up a little straight, looking Aziraphale up and down. “And no one would recognise you, if you were done up in labourer’s togs.”

“‘Togs’?” Aziraphale echoed with dismay. “That sounds dreadful.”

“S’not meant to be a picnic, angel.” Crowley leaned forwards, bracing his arms on his knees. “Do you have anything that doesn’t look like that?”

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Well… I have some of my old things...”

Crowley scrambled to his feet. “Let’s see,” he said. “Show me what you have.”

Aziraphale got up too. “Don’t you dare laugh at me,” he warned, wagging a finger. “I’m not in the mood for any silliness.”

“Would I?”

The angel raised an eyebrow as he shooed Crowley towards the stairs. “_Wouldn’t _you?”

“Fair point.”

They made their way up the book-edged staircase towards the small flat on the upper floor. Aziraphale hardly ever entered it, using it more as an extended storage area for things that weren’t part of his book and antiquities collection. It also meant a rather substantial wardrobe, bulging with his favourite items of so many eras, on the far side of the seldom-used bed.

Crowley dived into them with a hoot of delight, rooting around through a chronological catalogue of some of their misadventures. He poked his head around the wardrobe door, Aziraphale’s ruff tucked under his chin. “Too much?”

“Not quite your colour, is it?”

Crowley chortled and vanished back into the tangled bundles of silk and lace. “Oh, I remember these!” he declared, waving a pair of sleek stockings, the memory of which made Aziraphale’s ears pink. “Bastille, wasn’t it?”

“Just roll them up and put them back! They’re hardly suitable now!”

Crowley grinned, rubbing his fingers along them. “Not unless you’re a very niche brand of gardener,” he agreed, then coiled them up and tucked them back into the wardrobe. He poked through some more of the clothes, then shook his head. “S’all too formal.”

“I could have told you that,” Aziraphale said with a sniff. “I don’t generally go in for the manual arts.”

Crowley dropped back to sit on the patchwork quilt on the bed and gave him a thoughtful look. “I could come up with something for you.”

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not about to play silly beggars, are you?”

Crowley clapped a hand to his chest, feigning shock. “_Me_?”

Aziraphale tried to fight the smile. “Very well,” he agreed, circling around the end of the bedframe. “Shall I undress, then? I won’t have you messing about with my clothes.”

Crowley sprawled back on his elbows. “You’ve never objected before,” he purred with a lascivious wiggle of his eyebrows.

Aziraphale hid a smile and set about removing his clothing, taking his time to hang up his housecoat after he removed it. Crowley – still sprawled on the bed – watched with interest.

“I’m hardly a spectator sport,” Aziraphale chided mildly as he unfastened his waistcoat.

“I’ve just never seen you take things _off_ before,” Crowley pointed out, spilling onto his side and propping his cheek on his hand. “Putting on, all the time, but this?” He waved the fingers of his other hand to the angel’s shirt. “Do you do that every time? All the buttons and cuffs and everything?”

Aziraphale nodded. “How else would I get undressed?”

In demonstration, Crowley snapped his fingers. His clothes winked out of existence, leaving him freckled and golden onto the patchwork quilt. Except, Aziraphale noticed gratefully, for a clingy pair of shorts that were neither as modest nor chaste as they initially appeared to be.

They raised – among other things – a question.

“How on earth did you fit those under your trousers?”

The demon grinned. “I didn’t.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks warmed. “Of course you didn’t,” he mumbled, returning his attention to tugging at his buttons and not the lithe demon and his strategically-fitted and eye-catching underthings. It was considerably more difficult than he’d anticipated. Especially when Crowley started humming a catchy little tune as he shed his waistcoat.

A tune that he recognised abruptly and his cheeks went hot. That particular little tune had been very popular when Soho had been considerably more risqué.

“Crowley!”

“What?” Crowley grinned up at him. “It’s _The Stripper. _You’re stripping.”

“I’m– that’s not– I’m _undressing_.”

Crowley’s grin grew somehow wider. “If you have a backing tune, that makes it stripping.”

Aziraphale – indignant – tossed his waistcoat at the demon’s head.

“Oh go on,” Crowley goaded, laughing as he tugged the waistcoat off his head. “I mean, you’re halfway there already.”

Rosy-cheeked, Aziraphale eyed him. “You’d… like that?”

Crowley lifted a skinny shoulder. “Never know until you try.” He raised his eyebrows, his glasses sliding down his nose. “I mean, my version’s nothing to write home about but you… you have _layers_. It’ll be like a fancy present.”

Feeling hotter by the moment, Aziraphale glanced everywhere but the demon. “Oh _really_…”

“I’d like to see it,” Crowley said suddenly, quickly, as if afraid of the reaction. “See you.”

At that, Aziraphale met his eyes, before Crowley dropped them.

Well… why not?

They were already planning the most reckless of capers. What was a bit of nonsense before they set foot in the lion’s den?

“Well then,” he said, toying with his button. “Play the music, maestro.”

Crowley turned puce, but snapped his fingers, and at once, the same jaunty brassy tune rolled around them.

And Aziraphale _did_ give it a good try, but given the extent of his rhymic dexterity had come in the form of the gavotte, it didn’t end well. The shirt coming undone was easy enough, but things got severely complicated by the addition of _sleeves_, let alone sleeve garters. He dissolved into helpless laughter when one cufflink went flying off and bounced across the bed and he shook his hands wildly, trying to dislodge his sleeves.

It helped that Crowley was laughing as hard as he was and, after several seconds of Aziraphale’s futile battle with the sleeves, the demon wriggled across the bed, chuckling.

“C’mere,” he said, beckoning.

“Not the show you were hoping for?” Aziraphale said, watching fondly as Crowley untangled his cuffs and hands and freed him from the confines of the shirt.

“Didn’t think it’d include projectiles,” Crowley retorted with a grin, shaking the shirt out and handing it back to him. Another fingersnap silenced the music. “But I did enjoy seeing you try it.” He leaned back on his hands as Aziraphale retreated a step to hang the shirt up. “So… gardening togs.”

Aziraphale glanced down at himself, at his vest and underpants and Argyll-patterned socks. “Nothing too over the top, dear,” he said. “I know you probably have some exciting cinematic visuals.”

Crowley looked him thoughtfully up and down, then snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale stared down in horror. “Absolutely not!”

From the look on Crowley’s face, he was having trouble not laughing. “Which part? The dungarees? Or the galoshes?”

“All of it!” the angel spread his arms. “For Heaven’s sake, Crowley, there’s undercover and there’s dressing me like a deranged fisherman!”

Another snap of Crowley’s fingers changed the outfit again.

Aziraphale tugged at the padded waistcoat over an extraordinarily plain white shirt. “Is this some kind of life-jacket?”

“It’s a body warmer,” Crowley replied, snickering. “Oh, I’ve got an idea. How about we go for the rough and ready lumberjack look.”

“Lumberjack?” Aziraphale made a face. “Those fellows that cut down trees?”

“And generally wear tartan,” Crowley said, rocking lazily from side to side.

“Oh?” Aziraphale tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. “That might not be so dreadful. Maybe we could try that?”

At once, Crowley snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale peered down at himself in surprise. The blue trousers were coarse and quite snug, as was the short-sleeved vest under his shirt. The shirt itself, however, was lovely. Thick and warm in rich tartan shades of burgundy, white and black. Very unlike his usual colours, but that, he supposed, was the entire point.

He turned to the mirror to examine himself. “My word.”

“Ngk,” Crowley agreed from behind him on the bed. “Can you bend down all right? Have to be able to bend down when you’re a gardener.”

Obligingly, Aziraphale bent, then crouched. Despite their tightness, the trousers still seemed to fit comfortably, barely even riding down a little. “How do they look?”

A vague grunt from Crowley made him glance over his shoulder.

The demon was gaping.

“What is it?”

“Fitted,” Crowley said with a vague and unhelpful wave towards the trousers. “Never seen you in fitted.”

Aziraphale straightened up at once. “They _are_ a little coarse,” he said, “but I suppose that works well for manual labour.” He considered the sleeves. “And I suppose if it’s warm…” He unbuttoned each cuff in turn, rolling the fabric smoothly up his arms. “That would work, wouldn’t it?”

“Nuh-huh.”

He turned back to the mirror thoughtfully. “Well, I certainly would look unlike myself, but…” He frowned at the mismatch of his neatly coiffed hair and face still smooth from his latest – and frankly unnecessary – visit to the barber. “You said lumberjacks are rough and ready?”

“Ngh?”

The angel ran his hand down his jaw, drawing out a full, thick beard, enough to mask his face. Then he reached up and dragged his fingers through his hair, rendering it a little longer and more unruly. “Ah! That’s more like it.” He turned, beaming. “What do you think?”

Crowley was red in the face and opened and shut his mouth several times without a single sound coming out.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted self-consciously, tugging at the braces strung over his shoulders.

The demon smacked his lips a few times. “You look–” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Mellors.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mellors,” Crowley repeated hoarsely. “Groundskeeper. Bit of rough. Lady Chatterley.”

“I know who Mellors is,” Aziraphale said indignantly. “I don’t see what that has to–”

“You.” Crowley pointed a wavering finger at him. “You would be Mellors.”

Heat cascaded up Aziraphale’s face. “Oh!” He looked down at himself and back up. “Gosh! No, that would be… that wouldn’t be…”

“Wouldn’t be,” Crowley agreed, swaying on the edge of the bed. “Bad plan. Not good.” His tongue snaked out. “Look like you’d bend someone over the nearest flat surface and shag them silly.”

Aziraphale immediately fumbled with the braces. “I shouldn’t keep it–”

Bony hands closed over his. “I mean, we’d have to test that. I mean, not sure if you could just take charge and do whatever you wanted with me. Not like we’ll be able to when– we’re about to get a bit preoccupied.” Sulphur gold eyes met his. “Better get it out of our systems. To be on the safe side.” Crowley’s eyebrows arched just a little. “Like the wall of that bakery?”

Oh, that occasion, the angel remembered too well. “And a little like Constantinople?” he suggested, running his thumb along Crowley’s knuckles. “Though it does seem we have our roles reversed.”

Crowley licked at his teeth. “So the groundskeeper and the lady of the house, eh? Going full Lady Chatterley?” He unfolded to his feet, still scandalously clad. “I’ll nip out and change. Give me a minute to pick out something… appropriate.”

Aziraphale smirked, dropping his eyes to the very fitted shorts. “I’ll wait with bated breath.”

“Sod off,” Crowley said, snorting, and headed for the door.

As soon as the door closed, Aziraphale turned to peer at himself in the mirror again. He would scarcely have recognised himself. The clothing felt odd as well. Certainly not something he could comfortably wear for days under cover. Though he had to admit it did make him look somehow more solid and formidable. Perhaps because it _did_ fit to the shape of his body rather than the clean lines of his suit.

And Crowley certainly seemed to appreciate that, whatever form he was in.

Aziraphale glanced towards the door. “Crowley?”

When no response came, he frowned and trotted over. A narrow corridor led to the small balcony that circled above the main floor of the shop. And, silhouetted against the light well, Crowley stood there in a blood red blouse, a skirt barely long enough to be more than a belt and – Aziraphale’s mouth went dry – strappy heels that criss-crossed around those familiar, lovely ankles. 

He must’ve noticed Aziraphale’s presence. Perhaps he heard the door. Either way, he sauntered out of sight, heels tap-tap-tapping away along the balcony. Aziraphale huffed, striding down the hall to catch up with him. That was a dirty trick to pull! He _knew_ how Aziraphale felt about his ankles and to do it deliberately!

He probably wanted to make him break character first again!

By the time he reached the balcony, Crowley was winding his way down the spiral staircase, a shimmer of red silk and black and flaming hair. Not, Aziraphale noted with amusement, without trouble. A wrought-iron staircase wasn’t designed for a saucy vixen in spiked heels and from the sound of Crowley’s hissed profanities, he was learning why.

Served him right for trying to win out.

As soon as heels tapped on solid floor, the angel began his descent, keeping an eye on Crowley as he drifted through the shop, gazing at shelves as if he had any interest in the books.

Aziraphale paused at the bottom of the stairs, taking stock. Very well. He was playing a forthright, burly masculine man. But that didn’t mean he had to be less than polite or civil. Certainly no knives or ripped nightgowns this time.

He stepped out into the main floor of the shop. “Afternoon, madame.”

Crowley turned with a twitch of his lips. He’d pinned some of his hair back, though the rest was still coiling around his jaw. “Why hello, Mr. …?”

“Er… Gardener.”

Crowley snorted. “Really?”

“Crowley!”

The demon held his hands up, grinning. “Okay, fine. Mr. Gardener.” He swayed sinuously towards the nearest bookshelves, trailing his fingertips along the spines. “This _is_ a surprise.”

Aziraphale took a leisurely step towards him, his eyes drifting to the sensuous shift of Crowley’s calves and thighs as he teetered along the length of the shelves. “Looking for anything special, are you?” he inquired, pitching his voice a little deeper than usual.

To his gleeful delight, Crowley shot a surprised look back at him, then pursed his lips when he realised he’d almost dropped character again.

“Oh,” he sighed dramatically, twirling on those damned wicked heels and lounging back against the shelves, “I think I may have found it already.” And because he could be a damned brat, he crooked one leg to prop that spiky heel on the smooth, polished wood of the bottom shelf. And arched his eyebrow when Aziraphale winced. “What do you think?”

“I think–” Aziraphale’s eyes drifted to those ankles. He was doing it on purpose. Of course he was. Constantinople had fallen apart into laughter because of Aziraphale and he wasn’t about to let Crowley get the upper-hand this time. Manners could wait. “I think you need to learn a lesson about respecting other peoples’ property, _ma’am_.”

Crowley’s throat bobbed and his tongue flickered out, forked and darting. “Is that so?” He slid his spiked heel sideways.

Aziraphale crossed the space between them in three strides, catching Crowley by the arm and yanking him off-balance, teetering on those wobbling heels. “It is,” he growled, hauling the flushed-pink Crowley four long paces towards the hexagonal table beneath the dome. “Stand there.”

“Why?” Crowley demanded, lip curling. “Do you think I’m going to listen to the _help_?”

Aziraphale leaned close enough to see the wideness of Crowley’s eyes through his glasses. “I’m going to make you,” he said softly, almost giggling at Crowley’s frantic swallowing and choked off sounds. “And you are going to like it.”

Before Crowley could gather himself to reply, Aziraphale stalked around him, piling up the books stacked on the table. Dozens of them, but he could carry them easily enough, stacked up in his arms. He bore them away to the nearest available surface and turned back to find Crowley staring hungrily at him. He’d tossed his glasses aside and was twisting at the top – but still not very high – button of his blouse.

“You’re very strong, Mr. Gardener.”

“And you, ma’am,” he retorted, prowling closer, “are shameless.”

Crowley flashed his teeth again. “I get what I want.” He reached out, wrapping a hand around Aziraphale’s braces to pull him closer.

Well, upstairs, he _had_ said Aziraphale could do whatever he wanted.

All the same, Aziraphale wasn’t sure which of them was more startled by how easily he twisted Crowley’s wrist, whipping him around to face the table, his other hand grasping the back of Crowley’s neck and pinning him face-down on the table top.

“Fuck!” Crowley croaked into the wood.

“I don’t like that kind of language,” Aziraphale murmured, leaning over him. “I may have to teach you several lessons.”

Crowley strained his neck back against Aziraphale’s hand. “You filthy muck-raker!”

The angel wedged a foot between Crowley’s, nudging them apart. “Keep going,” he said, enjoying the deepening flush spreading up the back of Crowley’s neck. Between the red of his shirt and his hair, it was a hideous clash. “Give me another reason.”

“Let me up!” Crowley slapped his free hand against the narrow table in an enthusiastic show of petulance. “I demand you let me up right now!”

Aziraphale leaned down over him, folding his left arm down to pin Crowley’s slapping one to the table. “I don’t think I can do that, ma’am,” he murmured, trying his damnedest not to break into a silly grin. “You’re just making matters worse for yourself.”

Crowley hissed, wriggling against the table top. “I’ll have you fired for this.” He tugged his right wrist against Aziraphale’s palm, squirming feebly.

Aziraphale lifted his hand towards the plinth that supported the precariously perched Eros high above them. “You might want to hold on.”

Crowley didn’t even hesitate, wrapping his fingers around the polished wood. “You can’t do this.”

The angel stared down at him, drinking him in, play-fighting but so pliant under Aziraphale’s hands. He trusted him wholly. Whatever he wanted. Well, then whatever he wanted would involve turning Crowley to a wanton, gasping mess. Heaven knew when – if – they would have time again.

He leaned down to bring his lips close to Crowley’s ear. “I can do whatever I want to you,” he breathed, so close that he felt the full-body shudder ricochet through Crowley’s body.

He braced his foot against the inside of Crowley’s again, nudging it wider, and as he straightened up, he couldn’t help admiring how the splaying of Crowley’s legs had made the scanty excuse for a skirt slide up those critical few inches, revealed an utterly bare peach of a backside and a red-fuzzed Eve’s part, dewdrops of desire already beading the ruddy curls.

“Aren’t you the strumpet…”

Crowley’s muffled snort was still loud enough to be audible. A sharp smack on the backside turned it into a yelp. “Not strumpet!” Crowley exclaimed in his normal voice. “Christ, angel! Something a bit more… not-strumpet!”

“It’s a perfectly adequate word,” Aziraphale huffed, flustered, the momentum slipping away. No. No! This was his game to take charge! He uncurled his fingers from the back of Crowley’s neck and slid them up into his hair, pinning him down more firmly. “If I call you a strumpet, you are,” he said, more surely, then kicked Crowley’s feet a few inches wider and slid his right hand between Crowley’s thighs, cupping but not _quite_ touching. “A wanton, quivering little harlot.”

“Fnggggh!” Crowley moaned into the table, rocking his hips, trying to press blindly into Aziraphale’s hand.

“You see?” Aziraphale kept his hand just out of reach. “Would a virtuous lady act like that? Wriggling like a brothel girl for a touch.” He stooped down over Crowley again, lips close to the demon’s ear. “Your quim is telling quite the tale, you saucy little Jezebel.”

“Nooooo!” Crowley groaned, twitching. “No, don’t! Not– Christ!”

“I,” Aziraphale whispered gleefully, letting his fingertips brush everso lightly against the damp rumpled curls, “will call you whatever I please, ma’am.”

“Ngg!” Crowley gurgled inarticulately.

“Quite.”

Crowley’s huffed breaths misted the table top. “I could have you fired for this,” he snapped out, then shuddered as Aziraphale’s fingertips grazed flesh.

“That?” Aziraphale asked, curling the fingers of his other hand into Crowley’s hair and _tugged_. “Or this?”

Crowley’s heels scraped against the floor. “Fggggg!”

“Or perhaps…” A twist of one hand and an intimate stroke of the other had Crowley’s hips lifting demandingly, his fingers scrabbling at the table.

“Both,” he gasped out. “Yeah. Both. Very bad. Awful. Should stop.”

“And leave a lesson unlearned?” Aziraphale stroked his thumb through the sopping curls, seeking out the throbbing little bud at the apex of Crowley’s part. He knew him well. Well enough to know how long his insufferable teasing could go on before Crowley fell apart, and slowly and steadily, he played the callused pad of his thumb over and over in maddeningly slow circles.

“You’re a bastard!” Crowley groaned into the table, trying to rock back against him and whining when Aziraphale withdrew his touch.

“You’ll learn some manners before I’m done with you,” Aziraphale retorted evenly, delighting in the petulant whine and Crowley’s feet straining against his as he tried desperately to bring his thighs back together. “Now, say please.”

“Never!”

Once again, Aziraphale gently cupped his hand demurely between Crowley’s helplessly splayed thighs, the warmth of his skin close enough to be tangible, but not close enough for pressure.

“I could touch you,” he said, hastily trawling through the last romances he had deigned to read. The more fruity ones at that. “Laid out like this, I could…” Oh what was it Chaucer had said. “Kiss you by the quaint.”

“Oh Christ!” Crowley whined. “Medieval now?”

Another firm, sharp smack to an exposed buttock made him yelp again.

“I have better uses for my fingers, you loose-lipped hoyden,” Aziraphale crooned, leaning down over him. “I could put them inside your lovely wet quim, as many as you could stand.” He placed a bristly kiss on Crowley’s ear, startled by the pleased shiver that went through the demon. “I know you’ve watched me, ma’am. You know how big my hands are. How many would you take?” He slid one slowly from Crowley’s opening down to the front of his sex. “Would that be enough?”

Crowley hissed, rolling his hips demandingly. “That’s _nothing_.”

Which meant he didn’t expect Aziraphale to immediately thrust two fingers into his hot, slick opening. The table creaked with the force of the jolt that should his body, his fingers skittering across the surface again. “FUCK!”

“What did I say about language?” Aziraphale tutted, fingers completely still and buried to the knuckle in the demon.

“Wh-what?”

“I don’t appreciate swearing, ma’am.” Another deliberately bristly brush of his cheek close to Crowley’s ear made Crowley’s body clamp deliciously on his fingers. Oh, he _really_ liked that, didn’t he? “Perhaps you should apologise.”

“Bugger off.”

“I think not.” Aziraphale went still as a statue, including the fingers sunk deep in Crowley’s greedy body. Oh, he wanted to squirm and writhe and wriggle on Aziraphale’s hand, but the weight of the angel’s body over him pinned him in place.

“Ngk!” Crowley tried to rock his hips, seeking some kind of friction. “Ngah!”

“One little word, ma’am.” Aziraphale grinned mischievously, then teased his tongue into Crowley’s ear.

“Fine! Sorry! M’so-oh!” He gasped out as Aziraphale slowly started pistoning his fingers in and out. “Oh f– for goodness sake!”

“Very good,” Aziraphale praised, then added a third finger, making Crowley howl.

The demon wriggled urgently back against his hand as Aziraphale straightened enough to watch the obscene spread of glistening wet skin around his thrusting fingers. He bit his lip, then let his thumb dip in too, enough to have Crowley panting hotly against the table. One, two, three thrusts, until his thumb glistened, then…

Well, the second hole was so neglected.

Crowley reared up off the table with a hoarse choked sound of pleasure.

“I told you would enjoy you, you shameless little harlot,” Aziraphale purred in satisfaction, lifting his arm off Crowley. He didn’t need to pin him now and it meant he could twist his fingers deep into Crowley’s hair and tug, as he worked his sopping fingers and thumb deep and hard.

Crowley’s feet skittered on the floor, fingers hooked and white over the edge of the table, hips rolling in primal motions demanding more, more, more, more…

“One more little one?” he offered.

Crowley, burbling against the polished tabletop, nodded, his eyes widening, then squeezing shut as four fingers slid into his Eve’s part and a thumb still teased at his second hole. And Aziraphale knew the spot within him, if teased and stroked and rubbed just _right_…

“NGH!” Crowley smacked one hand against the table top and oh, Aziraphale liked _that_ very much. He intensified the strokes of his fingers, harder and harder until Crowley was reduced to sharp, urgent sound, punctuated with hisses when Aziraphale remembered to tug on his hair.

The heat of his body around Aziraphale’s fingers was intoxicating, slicker with every moment, positively dripping. Lord, it was tempting to withdraw his fingers and plunge his Adam’s part in. It had manifested the moment he had Crowley bent over the table and now, it strained achingly against the front of his terribly tight trousers.

“Good,” he breathed, withdrawing his thumb and twisting his hand to resume his assault on the sensitive peak of Crowley’s sex.

He didn’t expect the hot gush of liquid over his fingers, the tightening of Crowley’s body and the shuddering gasps as Crowley sagged on the table top, soaked and spent and spilling in slick drips all over the floor.

Nor the urgent stab of lust it sent through him. He had done that. Brought Crowley’s Eve’s part to such an urgent climax that his spend had spilled out of him like that.

His fingers slid free with a sloppy, wet sound and he fumbled for the buttons of his trousers, muttering a rude word under his breath as he tugged the small metal buttons undone. His Adam’s part thrust out at once, achingly hard, and he caught Crowley by the hips, dragging him closer.

But…

But some things felt wrong, even in a game.

“Are you read for your next lesson?” he ground out.

“Ngh!” Crowley nodded, then groaned long and hard as Aziraphale plunged into him, slamming against him with a force that shook the table, dislodging books from the upper tiers.

As small volumes rained down, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to care. He grabbed Crowley hard by the hips, hoisting his limp body up off the table, feet dangling and legs gaping wide, and pumped into him with near mindless lust.

The hot wetness of Crowley’s slick was soaking through the front of his trousers and Crowley fumbled back, groping for one of his hands, squeezing in encouragement, even though his own muffled sounds had been reduced to rhythmic grunts with every one of Aziraphale’s urgent thrusts.

Aziraphale huffed, slipping his arm under Crowley’s hips to hold him up and stooped over him, dragging his other hand to cover Crowley’s on the edge of the tables.

“You filthy little tramp,” he growled against Crowley’s ear. “Look at you. Shameless. Filthy.” Crowley’s feverish moans made him scramble – lust-hazed – through the words he could remember. “Frigged and ravished over a table like a feckless wanton.”

“Yeah,” Crowley gabbled breathlessly. “Shameless. Ngh.”

“You’d let me do it any which way, wouldn’t you?” Aziraphale slowed his strokes by will alone, deep, relentless pushes into Crowley’s quivering parts. “Find you in a private moment and have you against the wall.” An enchanting thought bubbled up. “On your knees. Red lips around my rod.”

Crowley gave a shaky chuff of a giggle. “Ngh-hm.”

“You’d swallow it down, wouldn’t you?” He grazed his cheek against Crowley’s, basking in the shudder of pleasure, his own climax thundering closer with every slow, deep thrust. “Like a good little strumpet.”

And Crowley must’ve known, somehow, slanting a golden eye look at him. “For you,” he rasped. “Yes. Sir.”

Why that tossed Aziraphale over the edge, he couldn’t say, but he stooped there, shuddering through his orgasm. His own spend mingled with Crowley’s, both of them soaked all over as they slumped against the table, breathing hard.

Only when the table gave another ominous creak did Aziraphale manage to straighten up, drawing himself free of Crowley’s body with a moist squelching sound. Crowley, he noticed, remained splayed out.

“Up you get, dear,” he said, hoisting the limp demon up with his arm around Crowley’s waist.

Crowley flopped over his arm like overcooked spaghetti. “Ngh,” he said, flapping a hand towards the stairs.

Aziraphale chuckled fondly, hoisting the poor creature up and over his shoulder. “I don’t know why you’re so worn out,” he chided, tucking himself in before making his way towards the stairs. “_I_ did all the work.”

Crowley poked him reproachfully in the middle of the back.

“Well, all right, yes, you _did_ contribute.”

“Ngh.” Crowley sounded satisfied.

“By making a mess everywhere.”

“NGK!”

The angel patted his bare bottom gently. “Stop complaining.”

On legs that were still a little shaky, he carried Crowley back up to the bedroom and tipped him down onto the bed. Crowley flopped back against the pillows and barely moved as Aziraphale fetched a basin of water and cleaned him up by hand, gently sponging the flushed and swollen folds of his Eve’s part.

“Don’t need to,” Crowley murmured drowsily.

“I know,” Aziraphale replied affectionately. “But I like… this. The… the afterwards.” Taking care of you, he couldn’t say. Cherishing you. Looking after you here, in my bed.

He sponged up the mess and towelled Crowley down.

“Never came up with an outfit,” Crowley mumbled, his eyes half-closed. “For you.”

“It’s all right. I have some gardening books and country tales. I’ll find something appropriate.” Aziraphale set the bowl aside and set about changing out of the silly choice of outfit. He was down to his underthings when Crowley made a small sound. Not quite distress, but something discomfited. “Crowley?”

Sleep-hazed golden eyes peered up at him. “Can you kiss me once? With the…” he flapped a hand at Aziraphale’s bushy face. “See what it’s like.”

The angel chuckled. “Of course.” He leaned down over the bed and placed a chaste kiss on Crowley’s red-smudged lips. Which turned less chaste when a snakish tongue flickered against his lips, and he slid downwards, parting his lips to deepen the kiss.

“Ngh.” Crowley shoved at his shoulders. “Nope. Nope.”

“Nope?” Azriraphale echoed, amused.

Crowley made a face. “Scratchy. Don’t like scratchy near my mouth.”

“But on your ears and throat, yes?”

Crowley flushed charmingly. “Okay, yeah, but not mouth.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Aziraphale patted his hand. “Get some sleep, dear boy.”

Crowley squirmed onto his side, coiling up in a ball on the covers, and was out like a light.

Aziraphale sat there for several moments, watching him. If this was the last chance they would have to spend time like this, then it had been a pleasant end to their normal routine. Still, he was an angel who enjoyed his indulgences, so he quietly donned his pyjamas, fetched a book, and sat on the bed beside the demon, drawing the covers over both of them.

__________________________________________

“Brother Frances.”

“Nanny.”

“If I may have a moment of your time, dear?”

“Why certainly, my duck.”

“Right. Now. What the hell are you wearing?”

“It’s traditional rural clothing! Isn’t it good?”

“Oh, sweet Satan…”

“And look! No fuzziness around the mouth. You know. Just… in case.”

“Oh, _bless_ it, angel.”


	20. Lesson 20 - 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while, hasn't it? I've been sitting on this chapter for ages and just couldn't get it out my brain.

The sun was just creeping up when Aziraphale spotted movement in the garden.

Like every member of the Dowling staff, he’d been assigned lodgings, but while most of the household lived in the big house, he had – with a little subtle divine intervention – insured he was given the run of the small groundskeeper’s cottage.

It wasn’t much, a small, one room building with a hearth and ancient iron stove, but he hardly needed much. Crowley agreed it would be safer. After all there were probably people from his side on the staff, keeping an eye on things as well.

Aziraphale had brought a few books with him and was enjoying one over his morning cup of tea when he saw her striding down the lawn. He couldn’t recall the last time Crowley had chosen to present as female for such an extended period, but he had to admit he certainly appreciated it.

Crowley had cobbled together a rather terrifying and fascinating persona from several modern cinematic films about nannies and teachers. The first time Aziraphale had seen her fully-attired as Nanny Ashtoreth, his heart had very nearly stopped in his chest, so unlike Crowley in every possible way. Domineering, stern, direct, severe and compelling.

And yet, still very much Crowley.

He smiled, marking his page in the book with a scrap of paper, then donned his Brother Francis features with a snap of his fingers. His boots and hat, he retrieved from the stand beside the door, then he trudged out into the grounds, across the broad expanse of grass.

By the time he reached her, she had hiked her tight skirts up over her knees to crouch down beside one of the flowerbeds, and even from ten feet away, he could hear her berating the geraniums in a low, sibilant hiss.

“You’re up early, Miss Ashtoreth,” he said, adding an extra roll to his accent for good measure. “Is anything amiss?”

Crowley snarled a few more guttural syllables at the flowerbed, then straightened up smoothly and pivoted to face him. “Brother Francis. Good morning.” She gave him a thin grimace of a smile. “The wee man is having a family breakfast this morning. I thought I’d best leave them to it. Throttling your employer in front of his wain is frowned upon.”

“So it is,” Aziraphale agreed, fighting a smile. “I see you’ve been looking over my handiwork.”

Crowley gave him a scathing look. “Someone has to,” she said in her normal accent. “Satan’s sake, angel! Look at the state of the weeds! And your flower beds are a mess! And have you even aerated the soil?”

He widened his eyes innocently. “Aerated? You mean blow on it?”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “Oh shut up,” she grumbled.

The angel chuckled. “You know you enjoy having something to shout at,” he said, rooting around in his pocket and withdrawing a length of straw that he tucked between his teeth, earning a snort of amusement from Crowley. “Especially since you can’t really shout at the Antichrist or Mr. Dowling.”

She shuddered. “Ugh. ‘Call me Tad’.”

They stood there in companionable silence for a moment.

“You know,” Aziraphale murmured pensively, as if he hadn’t been toying with the idea for weeks, “if you needed to let off steam, you could always pop by my cottage when the little fellow is down for the night.”

Crowley gave him a speculative look. “Yeah?”

“It’s out of the way,” the angel murmured. “And I’m sure you could slip away unnoticed.”

“I’m sure I could.” Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not changing, though. You take me like this.”

Aziraphale took the straw from his mouth, twisting off a little bit from the end. Sometimes, one had to be a little specific, even if his cheeks flamed with the thought of saying it out loud. “_Nanny_ would be… very welcome.”

“Is that right?” Crowley’s grin clanged around every syllable and when she spoke, her accent lilted back towards Scottish. “Have you been a naughty wee man, Brother Francis? Do you need a skelp on your arse to make you behave?”

“Well…” He gave her his most virtuous look. “Only if you feel the shoe fits.”

“Oh aye?” Crowley smirked like the cat with both cream and canary. “Well. We’ll just have to see if you’re a good wee gardener for the foreseeable, won’t we? It’d be a shame if someone was to catch you… misbehaving yourself.”

“Quite so,” Aziraphale agreed, fighting down his own smile. “And it would be awful to make you cross.”

Crowley snickered, stooping to dust some loose grass from the end of her skirt. “Course.” She turned back towards the house, her features sliding back into a grimace. “Here’s to no screaming tantrums.”

“The boy isn’t that bad.”

Crowley glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. “Who said I was talking about him?”

Aziraphale smiled fondly, then stumped back to his cottage to finish his tea before beginning the garden labours for the day. Of course, he thought to himself, now he would have to come up with some little misdeed to tease Crowley.

Technically, no, he didn’t have to, but sometimes you simply had to give into the urge to be a little naughty.

_______________________________

The days rolled by pleasantly enough, though Aziraphale had few opportunities to cross paths with Crowley. Too many people were about, too many eyes on her and the boy. Once or twice, they saw one another when he popped into the kitchens for some breakfast, but the best she could manage with a thin-lipped grimace for him in passing.

On the days when little Warlock ran loose in the gardens, Aziraphale made sure to divert him with the wonders of nature and parables. To his surprise, the child was good-natured and amiable, nothing like he’d expected. He’d half-suspected there would be a malicious streak present already, but the worst he had witnessed was when Warlock – giggling – tried to steal an apple. It hadn’t been ripe enough and the boy had given up, but the fact that was his greatest sin made Aziraphale smile rather than worry. Of course his Nanny would encourage him to it. It was a classic for a reason.

One such morning, the boy had been very curious about the fauna around the gardens and Aziraphale had happily indulged his curiosity.

It came as quite a surprise the following night when, after returning from supper, the lights in his cottage sputtered out before he even closed the door. He frowned, lifting a hand to call down a miracle, but a rustle in the dark gave him pause.

“Francissssss,” the sibilant whisper came from the shadows, sending a thrill down his spine. Behind him, the bolt of the door slammed home. “You’ve been a very naughty boy.”

“Nanny?”

Lips brushed close to his ear. “Who else would it be, dear?” she purred, spreading her fingers over his shoulders and squeezing.

The darkness hid his smile for him. “Oh dear. Have I done something to upset you?”

“So sweet and innocent, aren’t you?” Her breath was warm on the side of his throat, her lips so close but not quite touching. “The virtuous lamb, ambling about, not a care in the world.” Her fingers tightened, thumbs pressing to his shoulder blades. “Tsk, tsk, Brother Francis. I know better than that.”

“Now, now, Nanny,” he teased, leaning into the accent he’d chosen for the part. “Put the light back on and tell me what might be the matter.”

One of her hands slid over his shoulder and to his throat and – with a single tug – pulled loose the soft neckerchief he’d tied there. “No light for you, dear,” she murmured. “Not until you’ve learned your lesson.”

The cloth slithered across his eyes and he could scarcely hide the shiver of anticipation as she tied it snugly behind his head.

“What are you doing, you… you hoyden?” He added a theatrical waver to his voice, apparently unconvincing enough that Crowley broke through her nanny guise and snorted in amusement.

“Teaching you how to show a little respect,” she murmured, then – oh Lord – sucked lightly on his earlobe. “And taking my pleasure in it too, dear.” Her hand splayed on his chest. “You _do_ want to please Nanny, don’t you?”

“It– it’s hardly right, young miss.”

“Let me remind you of your sins,” she purred, all but plastered against his back, “and you may decide if you should be punished.” There was a brief stillness and then Crowley spoke in his more familiar tones, “And if it’s too much, any of it, say apple.”

Warmth welled in Aziraphale’s chest. Of course Crowley would find some way to give him a way out if he needed it. “Apple?”

Her smile returned along with her accent. “Aye, my wee poppet. Don’t you know one a day keeps the doctor away?”

He laughed a little unsteadily. “Hearsay, isn’t it?”

“Not if you throw the apple hard enough, dear,” Nanny said with a dark chuckle. Her hands returned to his shoulders and she guided him forward. “You’ll be doing as you’re told tonight, won’t you? You wouldn’t want to get in any more trouble.”

“I always behave, Nanny,” he protested, fighting a smile at the indignant “tch” sound she made.

A gentle pressure to his shoulders pushed him downwards, though he didn’t land on hard wood or threadbare carpet as he expected. Instead, there was a thick cushion, enough to stop him knocking his knees on the floor, a surprisingly generous concession given her tone.

Her small heels tapped on the floor as she circled around from behind him and the whisper of shifting fabric suggested she had sat down. Close. Not quite touching, but very close. She snapped her fingers and abruptly, warmth filled the little house, spreading out from the fireplace, accompanied by the crackle and snap of flames.

“That’s better,” she murmured and fabric brushed fabric again. He could picture her quite clearly, folding one leg over the other. “Now, dear, shall we recount the sins of the day?”

Aziraphale sank to sit on his heels.

“Ah, ah!”

The angel very nearly squeaked when something – her foot, perhaps – pressed up between his thighs, the intimate pressure pushing up upright.

“No slouching,” she said, holding him there. “Am I understood?”

Oh sweet Lord, what had he let himself in for?

“Yes, Nanny,” he managed, the final syllable cracking as she dragged the gently pressing object slowly back and forth. He… he hadn’t donned a part this morning, hadn’t thought on it, and now, he couldn’t help wondering if he should, or if it would be–

Nanny cleared her throat. “Brother Francis,” she snapped, and the pressure was more firm and less pleasurable.

He straightened up at once, rewarded by another leisurely stroke before her – yes, it must have been – foot dropped away.

“The sins, Brother Francis,” she murmured. “You spoke with the child yesterday, didn’t you?”

Gathering his scattered wits, Aziraphale nodded slowly. Yes, he had. “All in good faith, Nanny,” he said virtuously. “We spoke of the blessings of nature and all her splendour.”

“Yes. Young Warlock has quite the tale to tell,” Nanny murmured. “What’s this I hear about you welcoming vermin and pests into _my_ gardens?”

Oh. Oh dear. All things considered, that _was_ probably a crime worthy of punishment in Crowley’s eyes.

“I– ah– the boy ought to know about all living things. Even those some consider unpleasant.”

The slap of soft leather against bare skin made Aziraphale’s heartbeat quicken. A glove, perhaps. Or – and the thought made him swallow hard – a belt or crop or some kind. It had come up, once in a while, when they idly considered new entertainments, and now, Nanny took her aesthetic of Victorian Governess very seriously. Not to that extent around the boy. Of course not. He was a _child_ after all, but Aziraphale… was not.

“I’m very disappointed,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Slugs and snails in the flower beds? Pigeons taking a shite on the stonework? Have you no respect?”

“It’s nature, my dear,” he replied, knowing full well he was being far too cheeky and the anticipation of the punishment made his pulse quicken. “Being natural.”

A fingertip tilted up his chin. “What did you call me, lamb?”

“My dear.”

A whisper of motion warned him a split-second before a sharp thumbnail pressed to his lip. “Not tonight, poppet,” she purred. “Who am I?”

“Nanny. Pardon me, Nanny.”

Long bare fingers cupped his chin, then were gone. He couldn’t hear her moving, couldn’t feel the warmth of her nearby. He tilted his head, one way then the other, but Nanny Ashtoreth could be as still as a serpent on a rock, biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

It seemed like an eternity, listening with his heart in his mouth and only his own shaking breaths and the snap of the fire in his ears, before cloth rustled. Kneading at his thighs, Aziraphale tilted his head, straining to pinpoint her, as the fabric whispered on skin.

In front, he realised. She hadn’t gone anywhere, simply sat back and watched him. And now…

The chair creaked quietly as she shifted, then another rustle, this one lighter. A hiss and drop of something light hitting the floor. Very light. Scarcely enough weight to make a sound. He could imagine all too well what item of clothing she might have shed.

“Do you know what that was, pet?” she murmured.

“I-I hope you’re not being unseemly, Nanny,” he stammered, the tumble of his words on a little play-acting.

The press of a foot returned, sliding tantalisingly up from his groin, over the curve of his belly. Toes pressed briefly to the middle of his chest. “You’ll take them off my ankle, my boy,” she purred, then prodded more sharply when he lifted his hands to obey. “_Not_ with your hands.”

Heat blossomed across the angel’s face, his heart skipping. “O-oh.”

She was smiling, he could hear it in her voice, as she said softly, invitingly, “Lean forwards.”

Her foot rose to meet his chin and oh, sweet Heavens, her toes were bare. He took a shivering breath, sliding his cheek along the curve of her instep – and yes, delighting in the annoyed chuff of ticklish laughter – towards her heel.

“Very good.” Her foot tilted and he couldn’t resist pressing the softest of kisses to her anklebone, the delicate sharp jut of it too inviting to resist. “Ah, ah, ah!” She lifted her foot away. “The more you misbehave, the more I’ll have to punish you.”

Aziraphale bowed his head to hide his smile at the delight in her voice. “My apologies, Nanny.”

“Hm.” Her foot returned, her big toe brushing his ear. “Proceed.”

He nuzzled his way along the warmth of her ankle until he felt the prickle of lace against his nose and lips. He had to sink his fingers into his thighs and take a breath. They felt like little more than a cobweb, delicate and barely there and she had been walking about in them, which meant she had intended for him to be the one to take them off all day.

“I don’t have all night, dear,” Nanny observed, voice warm with mirth.

Carefully, he caught the fabric in his teeth, leaning back as she drew her foot away. The lace clung to his lips and he had to swallow hard as the musky scent of her Eve’s part reached him. The knickers were already a little damp. Had she been entertaining herself while she waited? Aziraphale curled and uncurled his fingers against his smock, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

The brush of fingertips beneath his chin made him jump and Nanny laugh softly as she retrieved her underthings from his teeth.

“Very good, my boy,” she said, brushing her thumb along his lower lip. “Very obedient.”

Aziraphale darted out his tongue to wet his lips. “Yes, Nanny.”

She made a speculative sound low in her throat. Her hand moved briefly away, then returned, empty, and she pressed two fingers to his lips. “Open up, lamb,” she murmured, “get me good and wet, there’s a good lad.”

Aziraphale stifled a moan, parting his lips and sucking her fingers into his mouth. The salt tang of her part was all over her fingers already and he lapped and licked greedily, sloppy and wet and messy, trying to claim every bit of her taste.

Slowly, lazily, she rocked her hand in a steady, deepening rhythm that made his body surge with heat and a part emerge – throbbing with need – beneath his smock. He could hear the deepening rasp of her breathing as she ravished his mouth with her fingers, the wet, slick sound enough to make him moan as she added a third.

“Look at you,” she breathed, her other hand catching him by the hair. “Shameless, aren’t you, Brother? Crawling on your knees to do what I tell you.”

Aziraphale could only nod minutely, mouth thick with fingers and saliva.

The warmth of her drew closer and he shivered at the heat of her breath on her ear. “Now, I need you to sit very still, lamb,” she whispered. “Still as stone. Am I understood?”

“Mm!”

She chuckled, warm and sinful, and her tongue coiled wickedly into his ear. Aziraphale jolted, but didn’t otherwise move, clenching his fists in his smock.

“Very good,” she said with soft approval. “Just like that.”

And abruptly, her hands were gone, leaving him empty-mouthed and shaking and clutching at his clothing, trying to resist the urge to press his palm to the aching swell under his smock.

The chair creaked again, fabric whispering on skin, and then Nanny uttered the softest of sighs. Aziraphale’s mouth went dry as the sounds changed, just a little, so quietly, then a little louder, a wet, slick sound, over and over. Nanny’s breath hitched, her moan lewd and wanton. The creaking of the chair came again, louder, a syncopation with the sound of spit-slick fingers rutting into the welcoming warmth of Nanny’s Eve’s part.

Aziraphale’s fingers clenched more tightly in his smock. He could see it all too clearly, her skirt hiked up, perhaps one leg flung over the threadbare fabric of the armchair, her hips rocking up urgently against her shiny-wet hand. His own hips shifted sympathetically, longingly, and if he pressed his hands just a little harder, pulling the fabric tight across his groin, the pressure against his Adam’s part was… oh it was nowhere near enough. But if he rubbed just a little…

The sharp little sounds of pleasure grew in pitch and intensity, the feet of the chair scraping on the floor with Nanny’s eagerness, until she gave a small, guttural moan and the pace dropped, dropped, dropped, to only crackling of flames and the moist sound of slowly moving fingers.

“Do you think I couldn’t see what you’re doing?” Nanny’s voice was thick with lazy pleasure. “You _are_ a naughty wee lamb, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale wrenched his hands away from his smock. “My apologies, Nanny.”

She tutted, sounding altogether too amused. “Well, it sounds as if you need a lesson in restraint, doesn’t it, dear?” Her bare feet tapped to the floor, one, two. The floorboards shifted under her weight as she circled him. “Hands behind your back.”

Oh sweet Lord. He swayed at the thought. Blindfolded, helpless, entirely at her mercy, trusting her not to do him any mischief.

A gentle hand pressed to his shoulder. “Angel? Apple?”

Somehow, Crowley always knew when to offer an anchor and a reminder that he was safe.

“No thank you, Nanny,” he said through dry lips.

Nanny squeezed his shoulder again gently, then moved behind him. “Hands.”

Without question, he obeyed, crossing his wrists behind his back.

There was a whisper of something smooth and silky slithering across skin and he started when that smooth and silky thing wound around his wrists, sheer and very obviously stocking, still warm from proximity to Nanny’s leg. She smoothed it in place, drew it comfortably, but not tightly, snug.

“Now,” she murmured close to his ear, “are you going to behave?”

“Y-yes, Nanny.”

Her fingertips teased over his lips and he made a hungry sound, opening his mouth and greedily licking them clean when she slid her fingers across his tongue. She hummed approvingly, stroking his hair gently with her other hand.

“That’s better,” she said before withdrawing her fingers and stepping away. Close to, the chair scraped on the floor, dragging closer. This time, when she sat down, her ankles brushed on either side of Aziraphale’s knees. “Now, do you know what I have in mind for you, lamb?”

Aziraphale shook his head, though the sound of fabric being rucked up gave him a rather clear suggestion.

“Lean forwards,” she said, smile audible in her voice.

With care, he did so, until he was snugly wedged between her splayed thighs. She had to be half-sprawled back in the chair, he realised, the warmth of her spread wide and welcome around him. A long-fingered hand curled over his head, urging him down.

“I’ll catch you if you fall, pet,” she promised. “Now, let me see what that clever mouth of yours can do instead of giving me lip.”

He went readily, nose colliding with her sopping part.

“Gently!” Nanny laughed, shifting her legs up and over his shoulders, thighs steadying him and keeping him from suffocating himself in her body.

In apology, Aziraphale nuzzled at her sex and performed a quick miracle, replacing Brother Francis’s teeth with his own. It wouldn’t do to bite by accident as he opened his mouth and licked at her sex, hot and salt-sweet against his tongue.

Lord, she was dripping wet and he _ached_ to shove himself up on his knees and bury himself in her, but a tug on his hair reminded him of his position and so he licked, licked hard and hungrily and greedily, darting his tongue into her, blindly seeking out the sensitive bud at the peak, sucking at it and humming around it.

Nanny’s sounds of approval, the taste of her on his tongue, the sensation of her warmth all around him made him moan into her skin, his part aching and throbbing demandingly. He gulped a breath and delved deep, licking into her and around her fingers as she dipped one hand down to toy with herself. Her other hand clenched in his hair, tugging, guiding, urging him on, as she rutted demandingly against his face, shamelessly driving herself to her peak, using him as if he was nothing more than an amusement for her pleasure.

Using him.

Taking him as her plaything.

He moaned again, hips shuddering up against the seam of his trousers that felt uncommonly tight. Her nails curled into the back of his neck, the delicious sharp sting like fire through a body already blazing, so very, very close.

“Apple!” he gasped out, wrenching back, breathing too hard, lips and chin smeared and wet.

Her grip loosened at once. “Angel?”

Aziraphale shuddered, pressing his cheek to her exposed thigh, drawing in rasping breaths. “A moment. I’m too close. I wouldn’t– it would ruin the game if I finished like that.”

“Ruin the–” Crowley stroked his cheek. “You daft bugger. That’s half the fun, seeing the mess I can get you in.”

It was and would be, but… but… but…

“But you don’t want that,” Crowley guessed, astute as ever. “Not tonight?”

“I… I would rather not. If you don’t mind?” He tried to smile. “I’m not allowed to use miracles, remember.”

“Ohhhh!” Crowley chuckled. “This is about the laundry, is it? Don’t want to have to scrub your sordid secret out of your underthings?”

Reproachfully, Aziraphale tilted his head and bit her lightly on the thigh, making her yelp in protest. “Don’t be facetious,” he grumbled.

“Fiiiiine,” Crowley sighed. “You horrible angel.” She snapped her fingers and abruptly, Aziraphale was left exposed and bare in the firelight, a gasp of surprise eking out of him at the sudden chill. “There,” she said smugly. “Problem solved.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale protested half-heartedly.

“You know,” she observed, her legs shifting on either side of him. “This opens up a new avenue.”

He pursed his lips. “Is that so?”

“Mm.” Long, lean legs slithered on either side of him and he had a split-second to realise how she was arranging her knees on either side of his thighs before she landed in his lap, rocking against his aching part.

“Oh!”

The buttons of her blouse pressed against his chest, her pulled-up skirt rubbing his belly. “How about this, Mr. Fell?” She grinned against his lips as her hips did sinful things, rolling and dipping, teasing over the tip of his erection, an inch and no more slipping in then free, grazing tantalisingly along slick warm lips. “Will this do?”

“Erk,” he told her helplessly, shifting his hips, trying to push up against her.

She draped her arms over his shoulders, sharp scarlet nails hooking into his back. “Good,” she purred and thrust downwards, burying him inside her heat in one merciless stroke.

Mortifyingly, it took only half a dozen rolls of her hips and he shuddered through his release, burying his face into the side of her throat as she continued to ride him. She slipped one hand between their bodies to rub herself to her own completion, the slick wet sounds of their bodies still pressing together and her huffed little breaths on his bare shoulder drawing echoing moans out of him.

“Mm!” Crowley finally grunted against his throat, sagging with her full weight on him.

“Mm,” Aziraphale agreed, leaning into her. He could feel his spend trickling down his thighs. At least it would only be making a mess on the cushion. Her smile against his throat turned to nibbling again and the hand on her back reached up, tugging his blindfold loose.

Crowley’s grin greeted him as the cloth fell away.

“Have you learned you lesson then, angel?” she inquired, leaning back a little in his lap. He couldn’t help admire the fact that – from neck to thigh – she was still fully dressed, which looked all the more dramatic pressing against the soft, bare pinkness of his own body.

He couldn’t help smiling. “We’ll have to see, won’t we, my dear?”

Crowley reached up to tug his ear. “If I hear about you bringing more pests into the garden, I’ll have to take _steps_,” she warned. “You can bugger things up in the house, but if you ruin my work on those sodding hydrangeas, you’ll regret it.”

Aziraphale blinked innocently at her. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to upset you.”

“Angel,” Crowley growled in warning.

“Oh, very well. No more uninvited pests.”

“Or invited ones!” Crowley wagged a finger in front of his nose. “Don’t think I don’t see your tricks.”

Aziraphale squashed down a smile. “Agreed.” He paused, shifting his arms. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to untie me?”

Crowley slithered off his lap, shiny smears still visible on her thighs as she got to her feet. “Once you’ve finished cleaning up your mess,” she said, sprawling back on the chair, legs akimbo. Her Eve’s part was invitingly pink and puffy from his attentions and oh, he really had left quite a mess, hadn’t he?

The angel dipped his head and buried his face between her thighs again, pressings his eyes closed in pleasure as she sank her fingers into his hair. Still plump and thrumming with arousal, it took no time at all to have her whimpering and moaning through another orgasm, her legs locking around his head and damn near smothering her in her hot, pink warmth.

“Mm.” Crowley informed him several minutes later, patting him on the head.

A snap of her fingers unravelled the stocking around his wrists and he rose on his knees at one, bearing her deeper into the chair, his own part hard once again and plunging into her.

“Oi!” Crowley protested vaguely. “M’not a fucking accordion. Don’t have a collapsible spine!”

“Fuss, fuss, fuss,” Aziraphale panted out, considering her position. On her back would crush her into the back of the chair, but if… ah. Yes. He withdrew and caught her hips, all but flipping her over and pressing her face down into the seat cushion, on her knees in front of him. This time, when he drove back into her, she arched up her hips to meet him, fingers sinking into the seat cushion. “Better?”

“Ngh!” Crowley grunted, rolling back to meet his thrusts.

Aziraphale’s world was reduced to the demon squirming under his hands. He slipped a hand down between her thighs, stroking his finger along the throbbing bud of her sex, pushing hard and deeper into her, the chair squeaking across the floor by degrees. When she quivered against his fingertips, he brought his now-slick hand around, his part throbbing at the sight as he slid his finger into her second hole.

Crowley moaned into the chair cushion, pounding at it with a fist and mumbling screeds of nonsense, babbling helplessly as he pulled another orgasm out of her. She sagged, panting and loose limbed and he couldn’t help curling both hands over her slim hips and angling her up, burying himself deep and hard, taking her every gasp and keen and moan until his hips stuttered against her exposed backside and he spent himself again.

Falling forward over her back, he exhaled shakily against her ear.

“Ngh.”

“Mm,” he agreed. Little by little, he withdrew, his thumbs grazing over her little backside. Their thighs slid together, slippery and wet. “Clean up?”

“Ngh!” Crowley reached back to swat him blindly, catching him on the side. “Vicious circle if we start.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement, then a thought occurred. He chuckled, rumbling through his chest.

“Hm?”

“Vicious circle,” he murmured, nuzzled Crowley’s ear. “My little ouroborous.”

The demon went perfectly still, then groaned and shoved him back, pushing herself upright. “You soppy bastard,” she grumbled, making a face at him as she rose, wobbling, to her feet. “Anyway, you’re the one chain-eating my fanny.”

Aziraphale gazed up at her fondly, all flush-cheeked and dishevelled as she pushed her skirt back down over cum-smeared thighs. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

Her eyes met his over the rims of her glasses. “It has its moments.” She pushed her glasses back up her nose, then straightened up, once more the formidable Nanny Ashtoreth. “Now be sure to behave yourself, lamb. I won’t hesitate to”–her smudged scarlet lips twitched–“come again.”

The angel burst out laughing, slapping a hand against his thigh. “Crowley!”

She grinned at him as she stooped to retrieve her knickers and stocking. “Ah, shaddup.”

He smiled as she strode towards the door. “Good night, dear.”

She glanced back, her grin softening. “Night, angel.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Like Gentlemen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28129428) by [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin)


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